


Paramour’s Hold

by cb-strike (cbstrike)



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Lethal White, Romance, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-04-05 02:43:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 97,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19039540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cbstrike/pseuds/cb-strike
Summary: Set a month after Lethal White. Cormoran and Robin are finally together, maneuvering their new relationship as well as a case: a woman was found attacked and the prime suspect is someone they know.





	1. “Why are you up?”

 

 

 

She was ethereal liked this, bathed in moonlight, stark naked and sleeping against his chest. He couldn’t see much of her, just the top of her strawberry blonde hair, the tantalising curve of her smooth, flawless back and derriere contrasting with his darker, hairier bulk.

He ran the tips of his fingers idly over her skin. He didn’t want to wake her, quite content at the pleasant weight of her body, her breasts against his torso, the soft rise of her breathing deeply reassuring. She was warm, in a pleasant sort of way that almost surprised him. All the other women he’s held like this were always several degrees too hot or too cold. It was like the warmth of her body echoed the warmth of her person.

He tried to fight sleep, wanting to prolong this feeling of utter—almost alien—contentment at finally having her in his arms like this. He marvelled at how he could miss her, actually miss her, even now. Even like this, entwined and sated in the dark.

 _Fuck it_ , he grinned to himself, wrapping his large arms around her in an embrace. She wiggled, immediately awoken, shrieked as he flipped them both over, laughed openly as he nuzzled his face against her neck. He mouthed at her collar bone and she arched into him, fingers running through his hair.

He felt her warm palms on his face, pulling him up to look into her sublime, sublime face. He wrenched an arm still cradling her, pinned between her back and the mattress, to gently swipe at her hair, resting his hand there, thumbing at her temple. She smiled up at him and he felt his breath hitch at the mere proximity of her.

As he bent to kiss her soft lips, he knew that for the first time in a long time he was happy.

 

* * *

 

She thumbed at the crease formed by his furrowed brows. Even as he slept he looked like he was thinking hard. She hoped he wasn’t dreaming of anything gruesome. She fought the sudden urge to kiss his forehead.

 _But you’re allowed,_ she reminded herself. So she did.

It pleased her to see his expression lighten somewhat.

She couldn’t quite believe it. Couldn’t quite believe that she was here, now, naked and in this bed, exposed to the drafty night air, blanket discarded and forgotten on the floor.

She hadn’t meant to end up like this tonight specifically. She supposed it was inevitable when you date someone, but she always thought she would maybe wait awhile. Sex, with her history, had horrific associations—the least of which was onerous duty. But he drove her back to her flat and kissed her goodbye and she felt an overwhelming need for him to stay.

She felt her cheeks grow warm recalling the feel of him, large everywhere, all over her; blushed as she remembered adventure overcoming her as she threw her legs over his hips and _sank_ and _rocked_ and felt his large, rough palms all over her skin.

She’s never laid this bare before, she thought idly. Never been this exposed. There were always blankets and drawn curtains and the dead of night. Of course, if anyone burst into the door at this moment (she blushed at the thought) they wouldn’t see much of her. His heavy leg was over her hip, his arms heavy on her side as he pulled her closer to him, clutching at her like an overgrown koala. She didn’t mind the weight. She quite liked it.

She felt safe, protected unlike she’s ever felt before. _Nothing’s going to harm you,_ she would always tell herself in the intimidating darkness. Now, in his arms, she knew it for a fact.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran woke to tiny whips of water on his face, as though he fell asleep outside and it was about to drizzle. He opened one eye and saw Robin with her back to him, gently towelling off her freshly-washed hair. He put a hand on the small of her back, curious that his large hand practically occupied the bare skin between her bra and pants, and then astounded that he’s even allowed now to look and have his fill, touch and have his fill.

She smiled at him over her shoulder, still towelling her hair. “Did I wake you?”

“What time is it?” 

“Eleven.” said Robin. 

“Why are you up?” Cormoran asked, his hand snaking itself to her flat stomach. He felt it shake as she laughed.

“Because it’s eleven. Aren’t you hungry?”

As if on cue, he heard his stomach rumble audibly. “No.” he said after the rumbling ceased. Robin laughed again. He grinned.

“Come back to bed.” he urged, fingers hooking itself in the waistband of her knickers. She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. Her wet hair stuck to his face as he wrapped his arms around her. It was an awkward angle, but he didn’t want to let her go. “Come back to bed.” he groaned against her mouth. “It’s Saturday." 

Robin pulled away and sat back up, hand on his chest. 

“I’m meeting Van for lunch.”

Cormoran groaned at this, taking her hand and pressing it against his face.

“You can come too, if you want.” she offered.

“I thought we weren’t telling." 

Robin chuckled. “I think she wants a consult on a case.”

“It’s Saturday.” Cormoran repeated, mouthing at her palm.

“People still need investigating on Saturdays.”

Cormoran smiled and felt Robin pinch at his cheek before jumping up. He got a glorious view of her breasts bouncing as she moved, mildly disappointed he hadn’t convinced her to stay.

“I don’t want to be late.” she said, practically twirling to her small closet. It made him happy that she seemed about as happy as he was in the aftermath of this new development.

Cormoran was quite content to just admire her figure and watch her get dressed. If she’d allow him to smoke as he did so, he might file this morning as one of the best of his life.

“Where are you meeting her?”

Robin bent down to rummage amongst shoes littering the floor of the closet. With the noon sun bathing Robin’s bedroom, Cormoran finally took it in. It was small, with white walls and hardwood flooring. It looked bright and neat, with hints of peach in the throw pillow on a chair by the window, the sheer curtains against the large glass door to the modest terrace, the duvet still discarded on the floor.

“Uh, Beppe’s at—" 

“W Smithfield?” Cormoran added, jolted awake now. 

“Yeah. You know it?”

“It’s across the street from St. Barts.” he said, heaving off of Robin’s bed creakily (it creaked all night) and balanced himself with one foot, hopping to the bathroom. He felt slightly conscious as Robin watched him from the corner of her eye as he did this. “Wait for me, I’m coming with you.”

 

* * *

 

As Robin drove Cormoran’s car through London, she wondered why she _didn’t_ have any reservations over the fact that last night was definitely an epoch changing night in their partnership. It was the first time they slept together after a week of _maybe_ dating and then a week of _definitely_ dating.

It started a little vaguely, with a deliberate (though heat-of-the-moment) kiss shared after Cormoran surprised her by literally putting her name on the door. They tip-toed around each other awkwardly for days before he invited her for drinks with an air of broaching a sensitive conversation he didn’t want to have.

She had been annoyed when he listed all the ways dating would be a bad idea, and was almost convinced herself until she exasperatedly asked him, “But do you want to?” She wasn’t even sure what she meant by it, but he had said “Yeah.” so immediately that she started laughing. Then he started laughing, and then they were kissing again and then they were here a week and a half later, Robin driving the BMW and Cormoran’s hand on her thigh.

She didn’t expect him to be so tactile. That was a pleasant surprise. Even before the sex she noticed there seemed to always be some part of him on some part of her. Fingers rubbing at the back of her hand as they sat in front of each other discussing a case, knee against hers as they sat together at the Tottenham, arms always resting on her backrest, his hand invariably rubbing at her back. She wasn’t sure if he was aware he was doing it. Either way, she loved it.

They agreed they wouldn’t tell people. Not for awhile, at least. Robin was in the middle of divorce proceedings and Cormoran expressed a disdain at how nightmarish Lucy and probably Ilsa would be when they find out. But it concerned her a little bit that neither Sam nor Andy, who both frequented the office, hadn’t caught on. They were supposed to be detectives.

The only person who knew, as of that morning, was Robin’s roommate. He arrived as they were leaving, and from the look on his face, he knew Cormoran spent the night. She hoped Cormoran wasn’t _too_ serious about not telling people. Robin had a sneaking suspicion Ilsa—and then Nick—will know by the end of the day.

She felt Cormoran’s hand grow slack on her leg. She looked to see him asleep, open-mouthed, head against the window. She laughed, a little disappointed she was too busy driving to take a picture.

 _You tired him out_ , said a voice in her head. She blushed.

“Did Vanessa tell you anything else about this meeting?” he asked as he held out a hand to hold hers. They were still quite a walk away from the cafe, and Robin thrilled at how affection came so easily to him.

She rested her chin on his shoulder. “No, just asked me if I could come here at noon. She sounded serious so I assumed it was work related.”

He let go of her hand to open the door for her. She spotted Vanessa immediately. Her friend lifted her head from her phone and looked straight at them, unsmiling.


	2. “What was done to her?”

 

 

 

“When was the last time you talked to Matthew?” asked Vanessa. Both Cormoran and Robin were midway down to sit and stilled. Neither of them expected that question.

“Er,” he heard Robin say and felt her eyes on him. “Two or three weeks ago?” then a little more concerned. “Why? What’s happened?”

Vanessa looked subdued. Cormoran was running fast deductions in his head. If he turned up dead somewhere, she wouldn’t be inviting Robin to lunch, she’d be knocking at her door. The only reason she would ask to meet at St. Barts is if there’s someone in there they need to see. Likely in the morgue. If Matthew wasn’t the victim, it was someone close to him. Or, alternatively—and Cormoran thought this highly unlikely—he was the suspect.

“There’s been an attack.” said Vanessa. Cormoran felt Robin clench. He extended his arm and squeezed the hand on her lap, forgetting completely they were planning to keep this on the down-low. “This morning, a woman was found thrown down a laundry chute at the Malmaison.”

“Oh my god.” said Robin, hand flying to her face in surprise.

 _People. Places. Things._ “Who’s the woman?” Cormoran asked.

“She had nothing on her person except a napkin in her dress pocket.”

Vanessa pulled something up on her phone and showed them both. It was a photo of a napkin from The Viaduct Tavern nearby. Scrawled on it was a phone number. “That’s Matt’s number.” said Robin, stunned. “And his handwriting.”

Vanessa leaned back, catching Cormoran’s eye. Both of them knew Robin should not have just said what she did. Cops, as both of them very well knew, had license to do whatever is necessary to get information. He glared at her and shook his head a fraction, _what are you doing?_

“She’s around five-foot four. Caucasian.”

She was giving Robin little details to prompt her to fill in the rest. It agitated him. _What the fuck is she doing?_ “Age approximation? Eye color? Does she have a mole on her face? Thick lips? Freckles or no freckles? Is she blonde, brunette?” he barked, angry.

“Cormoran!” he heard Robin, voice surprised at his sudden rudeness.

Vanessa gaped, hand falling to her lap, looking back up not at Robin but at Cormoran with a look of unease on her face. He understood immediately. She wasn’t tricking Robin to weasel information after all.

“What was done to her?” Cormoran asked.

“What was…” he heard Robin’s faint question, puzzled.

Vanessa was still staring at Cormoran. “Beaten to a pulp.” and then with a heavy sigh, “Vitriol to the face and head.”

“Oh…” Robin exclaimed breathily. Cormoran squeezed her knee. “And she had Matt’s number on her?”

“The case isn’t mine.” said Vanessa, looking morose by the second. “Carver took it the second we checked phone records and the name came up his. Eric tried to take it, even Richard. But Carver told the Commissioner we were all friends of you two and wouldn’t let us go near it. They’ve been calling and he hasn’t been picking up.”

“Matthew wouldn’t do this.” said Robin with conviction.

“I know. That’s why I was hoping you could help me find him and see what he knows.” said Vanessa. “This is attempted—“

“She’s still alive?” Cormoran asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” said Vanessa sadly. “In the ICU. It doesn’t look good.”

“Can we see her?” Robin asked. Both he and Vanessa turned to her.

“Robin, if her face has been melted off—“ Cormoran exclaimed suddenly, regretting his choice of words as soon as it left his mouth. Robin glared at him, of a kind that told him it was his girlfriend giving him that warning look, and not his work partner.

She had asked him to not be even more overprotective in light of this new thing that was going on between them, but the fact was that she didn’t know what she’s asking. Vitriol to the face and head? He wasn’t sure _he_ could take it. Vanessa thought as much.

“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.” said Vanessa with a bluntness he doubted she would’ve said had she and Robin not been friends. “I’ll lose my job if they see me lead you two in there. I might lose it over this conversation.”

She was right, of course. Vanessa should know better than talk to the person of interest’s wife about the case, but personal relationships have an insidious way of eroding professional relationships.

“You’ve got photos.” said Robin stubbornly. “I know you do. If I see them I can tell you that Matt definitely had nothing to do with it.”

“I know he doesn’t.” said Vanessa patiently.

“I might recognise who she is if…” said Robin, stammering slightly. “If-if she’s been hanging around Matt since before we split up.”

Cormoran squeezed her hand, but she extricated it from his hold to wipe fierce tears on her cheeks. She was worried for Matthew, he could tell. Not that he was jealous over it. If someone was accusing Charlotte of a heinous crime, he’d be upset too. Of course, he’s a lot more certain that Matthew isn’t throwing acid on people than he would be if Charlotte was accused of the same thing.

With trepidation and a look at Cormoran searching for approval (that he didn’t give), Vanessa scrolled through her phone and showed the photo to Cormoran first.

“Jesus fuck!”

Cormoran recalled being on a dirt road, pain so extreme he was numb to it. His ears were ringing, his immediate surroundings hazy and brown with smoke and dirt. He turned and right next to him was Richard Anstis, face so mangled and bloody he could see the hint of bone amid ripped flesh. He was so sure his friend was dead, so sure he, himself, was dying.

Half the woman’s face was swollen. The other half was heavily bandaged as though burned. She was intubated and unconscious, the rest of her lay limp on the bed, hooked up to machines. Her hair was patchy and wispy and nearly bald. Cormoran wouldn’t have been able to tell what color it is, or had been.

Robin made for the phone. Cormoran yanked it away.

“I’m not a child.” she said angrily, and he could hear it again, the upset girlfriend instead of the defiant partner.

He watched as her eyes settled on the image before growing wide with surprise and fear. There was no going back from certain things, he knew, no unseeing them. He put his arm on the back of her chair and sighed. _I tried._

 

* * *

 

Robin was wrong.

She thought having seen what had been done to Owen Quine that this would be more of the same. Surely there was nothing more gruesome than the image of a man cut up, intestines exposed like a butchered pig. She had been wrong.

This was worse. So much worse.

Somehow, that she was a woman, that it was her face, that she had been left alive was far worse than the ritualistic murder of Owen Quine. That had been a life ended, purposeful and methodical, every horrid thing done with meaning. This was senseless and vicious, a life ruined for seemingly no reason. ‘Fate worse than death’ came to Robin’s mind and thought this is the very definition of it.

She found that she couldn’t bear looking at it anymore and dropped Vanessa’s phone rather unceremoniously on the table. Vanessa pulled it back and pocketed it.

Robin felt Cormoran’s hand on her back, rubbing it slightly.

In the small sliver in her mind not filled with panic and dread, she registered that Vanessa probably now knows what they were supposed to not be telling. _Does it matter right now?_ she reprimanded herself.

“I know him better than anybody,” she said finally. “He can never do anything like that. He can never do anything even close.”

“Would you know where he is?” Vanessa asked.

Robin took a deep breath, taking paper and pen from her purse. Cormoran put his large hand on hers, keeping her from drawing paper.

“Vanessa,” he said, in a voice of eerie warning. Robin turned to him and saw that his face was grave and set, glaring at her friend. “If Carver wants to find Matthew, he’s going to have to ask us himself.” His voice was even and calm, but Robin knew he was pissed.

“I’m helping here.” said Vanessa, stung. “I’m trying very hard to give Carver a better suspect to fixate on but without ID of the woman, this is his only lead and he likes it. Likes the thought you’re already hiding him.”

“Carver’s a cunt.” Cormoran retorted.

“He wouldn’t be at the Deptford flat? Ealing?” Vanessa asked Robin.

“We sold the Ealing flat ages ago, and he wouldn’t stay at Deptford, he wouldn’t be able to afford it on his own. He’s staying at—”

“Robin!” Cormoran said warningly. Something at the timbre of his voice told him he was being her boyfriend right now, not her work partner.

“He’s staying at a flat in Knightsbridge. It’s one of our former landlord’s other houses in the capital.”

“That’s enough.” Cormoran growled. Robin turned to him and was a little relieved he directed it at Vanessa, and not at her.

“I’m not hiding him. He isn’t with me. If Carver can’t find him, he’s just not looking at the right places.” said Robin matter-of-factly.

Vanessa nodded. “Okay.” She stood up and leaned to give Robin a kiss goodbye. She let her. “I have to go. Bye, you two.” she said and left.

“Should we go look for him ourselves? Tell him what’s happening?” Robin asked Cormoran.

“No, Robin. That’s obstruction. What Vanessa did just now is practically tampering if you end up being a witness. We have to let them find him and talk to him.” he said, calmer now, arm on her leg, hand on her knee. “She shouldn’t have used your friendship to get information like that.”

“But if she wanted to help Matt—“

Cormoran sighed. “We don’t know that she does. We both know that he didn’t do this, but she doesn’t know him like you do. A poor woman has had something very horrible done to her and when it gets out, there’s going to be panic, and then pressure. When the public starts questioning the Met about suspects, it’s easy for them to fit him up for it. Matthew’s number in her person? It won’t make a guilty verdict, but the press has ruined lives with less.”

Robin was scared for Matt, but felt her heart swell. She took it as a sign of Cormoran’s care for her that he’s effectively trying to protect Matthew. She pressed her lips on his shoulder, and then rested her cheek. She heard the rumble of his stomach again. Despite everything else, she laughed.

“D’you want anything?” he asked her, his voice soft. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.” said Robin truthfully. She felt a little sick, wishing she hadn’t seen the photo of that woman.

Cormoran rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a _Three Musketeers_ bar. “You’re in luck, this is barely food.”

“Are you just full of candy?” she asked, taking the proffered bar and opening it.

“And cigarettes.” he grinned.

He squeezed her shoulder as he stood up. Robin watched him at the till, thinking about him, and them, and that poor woman. Who was she? What was done to her? _Why_ had it been done to her? Who did it? And what’s Matthew got to do with all this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the plot! Whaddya think?
> 
> Thanks for the comments and the kudos over the first chapter!
> 
> Thanks to those asking after The Deadbeat, too! Unfortunately, I hit a huge writing block with that one and started writing this to 'grease the wheels' as it were. It was only supposed to be an ~exercise but I'm now chapters deep into it so I think that one will be on hiatus for the time being. :(


	3. “What are you bringing?”

 

 

 

“They might’ve hid the vase under the floorboards. Old houses like that—“

“I can’t. I just—I have to…” Robin leaned back against her chair, putting down the extra fork she was using to pick at Cormoran’s pork and beans. She pulled out her phone and called Matthew.

“Tch!” she heard Cormoran grunt disapprovingly, but made no other move to stop her.

When it started ringing, she realised she didn’t have a plan.

“What?” came Matthew’s agitated voice. “You told me to go through the—“

“I know. Matt! Listen!” said Robin, trying to get Matthew to stop berating her over the phone, leaning further from Cormoran just in case he pulled her phone away from her ear. “Where are you? Matt!”

“You walked out on me, Robin! It’s none of your business where I’m at!” he yelled. Their divorce hasn’t been progressing in the most amicable of terms, but this red hot anger wasn’t usual. She knew (or at least, hoped she knew) that his renewed venom was over some terms her camp was negotiating that she knew he would detest.

“Matt!” she tried again.

“Call Clarice, Rob! I’m late for practice.” and he hung up.

It hadn’t been a pleasant call, but it was useful to Robin. She knew Matthew well, and knew that in extreme emotional states he could only ever muster brutal honesty. He had rugby on Saturdays, and told her he was late for practice. He didn’t sound as though he had been interrupted in the middle of running away or going into hiding. Why would he answer her call at all? He sounded like that because it was his inopportuning ex-wife that was calling. She didn’t trust him anymore, but she believed this.

She didn’t love him anymore but just as sure as she was that the Earth was round, she knew in her gut that Matthew had nothing to do with what happened to that woman.

He needed to be saved.

Cormoran’s face was to her, slowly chewing whatever bite of food left in his mouth. He was looking intently at her, jaw clenching. She could tell he was ticked off. Her overriding feeling, however, was relief. Matthew Cunliffe has now become a mere case to be solved. Cormoran—she pressed her palm to his cheek, his expression thawed—is real.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran didn’t like that Robin called Matthew, liked it even less that she got herself yelled at by that twat. He had half a mind to throw him to the wolves, but he knew Robin could never walk away from him like that. Just as an accusation of murder would ruin Matthew Cunliffe’s life, his ruin would also be hers.

He knew, perhaps from the moment Vanessa asked after Matthew, that it would be their responsibility to save him from this mess, even more than—and he was only being honest— getting justice for that poor woman.

He’s worried about Robin. He considered her to be in the midst of a long and turbulent road of healing. The Chiswell case hadn’t been that long ago. The press inquiries about that case and about her specifically isn’t yet spent. Exposure to another horrific and violent thing against a woman, with the Met’s attempts to tie it to her husband (shit as he is, divorcing him as she is), is not how she heals.

The compulsion to tell her to take it easy, to ask about the CBT, gnawed at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He didn’t want her to accuse him of being overly overprotective now that they were together.This new thing between them had been surprisingly easy and natural and so bloody-fucking-good that his only regret was that they wasted so much time. But he wasn’t stupid, he knew this—like all other new relationships—rests on precarious footing.

He didn’t want to sow seeds of resentment that might cause her to leave him. He felt a frisson of fear at the thought of her gone that he held her hand as he drove her back to Earl’s Court. He felt reassured as she entwined her fingers with his.

“I can tell Ilsa you can’t make it tonight, if you want.” he offered, thinking she might not be in the mood to socialise.

She looked genuinely disappointed. “But I already made the casserole!”

They were due for Nick and Ilsa’s that night, a Saturday night habit formed since Robin lived with his friends for a few weeks. Tonight, however, had a few of his other friends from Cornwall visiting. Having informed Cormoran of this a couple of weeks ago in Robin’s presence, Ilsa invited her too.

“Yeah? You still want to go?” he asked.

“It might be fun to meet your childhood mates. I need a distraction.”

Cormoran had other, more decadent ideas for distraction but desisted suggesting them.

 

* * *

 

“What are you bringing?” Robin asked Cormoran.

“What am I bringing where?”

“It’s a potluck. You’re supposed to bring something!”

“Why do I have to bring anything when you’re already bringing something? One dish per couple, those are the rules.”

“Rules of potluck?” Robin asked, playfully mocking him, elated that he referred to them as a couple.

“Yeah, rules of potluck. It’s in a book. I’ll lend it to you.”

She chuckled.

“I dunno. I’ve got a pack and a nice bottle of whiskey at the flat.” said Cormoran.

“You’re supposed to bring something people will like.”

“Then why are you bringing a veggie casserole?” Cormoran deadpanned.

Robin’s mouth was agape in fake offence. He grinned.

“Who’s at this party?” she asked.

She felt a little nervous, something she knew she wouldn’t have felt if she wasn’t actually about to meet her boyfriend’s friends. She hoped they would like her.

“I’m not too sure actually,” said Cormoran. “But I know Dave Polworth is coming.”

“Chum?” said Robin, remembering the old friend’s nickname.

Cormoran grinned. “Yeah. And his wife, Penny. They have three girls, but I don’t think they brought ‘em. Demelza Whitworth is also coming. She’s Ilsa’s best mate back in Cornwall. I think she’s married still, or married again. One of the two.”

Robin laughed at this.

“Just them that I know of. Mel and Penny are cousins. There’s a wedding they’re all going to, that’s why they’re in town.”

“Ah.” said Robin. She was a little relieved it wasn’t too many people.

Unable to stop herself, she said “I hope they like me, your friends.”

“Everyone likes you.” he said, lifting their entwined hands and kissing the back of hers. Robin felt a flutter in her stomach. “Everyone likes me better when I started hanging out with you.”

“Don’t fish.”

“I’m not fishing.” he said rather seriously.

“I don’t know, you’re quite likeable to people who aren’t suspects or journalists or police.”

“Good thing I don’t see much of those in my line of work.”

He pulled up the driveway and leaned to kiss her. It was soft. Quick. Like a habit. Like they’d be doing this for the rest of their lives.

She felt a little ridiculous missing him as he drove away after dropping her off at her place. They’ve been together all week, and then all night, and pretty much all day. They were seeing each other in a couple of hours.

 _Get a grip, Ellacott,_ said a voice in her head. She touched her fingers to her lips. _But I don’t want to_.

 

* * *

 

He planned to nap. He didn’t get much sleep. A smug smile crawled to his mouth as he remembered portions of last night with vivid clarity; the feel of her soft hands around him, the hitch in her breath as he moved over her, the smooth skin of her thighs on his lips.

His arm still smelled of her body wash.

He got up, dumped everything he needed in a kit bag and drove back to her.

“You’ve only been gone forty minutes!”

He wrapped her in a tight embrace, feeling her shake against him as she laughed in surprise and glee. He bent to kiss her, soft and languid, inhaling the smell of her still so fresh and clean and her. He felt her fingers ghost at his waist and he gripped her, lifted her as she wrapped her arms around his neck, legs around his hips.

He stumbled a little, unwilling to tear himself away from her mouth long enough to see where he was going. She was light in his arms that he barely felt a twinge in his knee, feeling her weight only as he took them both up the stairs and back in her bright, neat bedroom.

The bed creaked as he laid her down, creaked as he crawled above her, creaked and creaked as she moaned, creaked and creaked and creaked as he grunted and finally fell silent as he stilled within her, his thumb tracing the contours of her still panting lips.

The afternoon sun gilded her creamy skin that she glowed like a goddess made for his worship, and protection, and faith. He said no words, not yet, but his beating heart thudded: _I love you, I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope none of you felt too bad for Matt! :P Maybe he did do it, the prick!!!
> 
> I dedicate every creak in this chapter to hobbeshalftail3469, who pointed it out. I didn't even think about it like ~that lol. I just assumed Cormoran would make it creak because he causes furnitures to make noise lmaooo but now I think it's super hot!!!


	4. “Who’s your friend?”

 

 

 

Robin’s bedroom was a mess.

There were clothes discarded on her floor, pillows, the duvet. A lone sock has flown on her cream chair by the window. Her striped purple pants were crumpled on the bed with the bedclothes in disarray.

“Damn,” she exclaimed softly, noticing that her cheap metal bed frame had made scuff marks on the hardwood floor.

Her face was growing warm as she took in the sight, stark, unromantic, and frankly a little gross under florescent lighting. She’s never seen a room in this state of sensual aftermath before—at least not in real life, and certainly none of the rooms she’s ever lived in.

Much as she fought it, her thoughts wandered to her life with Matthew, where sex had been a simple fact of their relationship. It was thrilling at the start, when they were very young and hadn’t grown into two deeply incompatible adults. And then it had been terrifying in the aftermath of her rape, until it gradually became tender and comforting and loving that it gave her a pang of sadness as she remembered it.

But their relationship overstayed its welcome, and their sex life along with it. They got married, and it took on onerous obligation; a frequency they both kept their eye on, making sure they had it regularly enough for it to not be one more thing to fight about. There were no clothes thrown about in passion then, only strategic shifting of underwear under covers, and then the rolling off and then the dozing off that made her feel both the used and the user, satiating a biological need and perpetuating a social construct.

This—Robin thought, as she realised she was standing on Cormoran’s grey boxers pooled at her feet— is unlike anything she’s ever had before.

It wasn’t that it was _sexually adventurous_ per se. (as she thought blushingly) They hadn’t really done anything outside of her realm of experience. But she marvelled at how very young and how very adult she felt as he held her up in his arms, or how they would collapse on each other, unbothered by their mess and their noise and their nakedness.

This is the kind of sex she should be having, she thought almost decidedly. The kind that made her blush when she remembered it, the kind she would tell girlfriends as she got exceedingly drunk on fruity cocktails, the kind that made her aware of the growing want within her and the very naked man currently in her shower.

She’s not usually this randy, she thought almost as though in defence of herself as she turned her bathroom door, smirking at the realisation it was unlocked. Cormoran looked up from his bowed head under the shower, both hands pressed on the walls, holding himself upright.

Robin shucked off the shirt she was wearing and he smiled at the sight of her. “You’re going to make us late.” he warned.

“I don’t care.”

 

* * *

 

Robin was in a great mood. She had cranked up the volume of Cormoran’s stereo, singing with Taylor Swift as they both yelled with conviction, _“We are never, ever, ever getting back together!”_

It was making Cormoran laugh as he drove them both to Nick and Ilsa’s.

He never truly appreciated how young Robin was. She always seemed so mature, so grown up with her serious relationship and impeccable professionalism. But getting to know her the last couple of weeks showed him a different Robin, one of infinite possibilities and on the cusp of a true beginning.

He was well into his thirties, and looked even older. He’s seen the world, seen other women, lived a life that seemed packed with so many other lifetimes. _Am I being selfish_? he heard himself ask before he could stop. _Asking her to waste more of her youth on me?_

 _Don’t go there_. he reprimanded, begged himself. _Don’t fucking go there right now._

He felt her fingers reassuringly warm, reassuringly affectionate, playing with his ear. _“We are never, ever, ever getting back together!”_ she sang again, and even that felt reassuring. He kissed the inside of her wrist, whatever part of her he could reach.

It thrilled him that she was affectionate, that she was so open and receptive to him. He had been worried about that, unsure how he ought to proceed but willing to have gone at her pace, to wait however long it took.

He didn’t really expect her to be a certain way in that regard, never assumed she was prudish or wild or whatever midpoint there was in the spectrum of sexual appetite. He had been curious, of course, and wondered often at night alone in his attic flat precisely what it would feel like to touch her, hold her, even ravish her.

He never imagined this youthful exuberance that she had, and this feeling of profound want for him specifically that he found almost overwhelming.

She came to him in the shower, he recalled deliciously to himself. Whatever happens in his life he would forever carry the image of her exuberant face looking up at him, wet and warm as water cascaded down their bare bodies.

He looked at her as she bobbed her head to the music, revelling in the song she was singing, the company she kept. _How is she real,_ Cormoran thought. _How is she mine?_

 

* * *

 

A mane of blonde shakily twirled as they opened the door to Nick and Ilsa’s flat, and then fell quite literally into Cormoran’s unsuspecting form. Robin saw some white wine spill on his coat as she threw her arms around him. She eyed them as he held the woman by the small of her back to keep her steady.

“Oggy!” she shrieked, pulling away and kissing him on the face that Robin wasn’t sure if it landed on his mouth.

“I see you’ve already started, Mel.” Cormoran beamed at the woman. _Who is this Mel_ , Robin thought to herself. She remembered Cormoran saying she was Ilsa’s best mate. She didn’t know why she was surprised that this Mel was very beautiful, and very tall, with a resting pout she previously thought only suited supermodels.

“I’m at a party, aren’t I?” Mel quipped.

“I was told it was a dinner, actually.” Cormoran retorted. Robin kept a pleasant smile, only mildly wondering why Cormoran was still holding her against him like that, noticing now that the woman was in a very tight black dress, revealing a perfect figure.

“Spoil sport.” Mel pouted, and then seemed to notice her finally. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Robin, my partner.” said Cormoran quite easily.

Mel finally extricated herself from Cormoran, beaming now at Robin before giving her a kiss on each cheek. “I read about the Chiswell case (she pronounced it ‘chizzle’), you’re much prettier than those tiny photos of you in _The Sun_ next to this lump. Do you do interviews?”

“Jesus Christ, Mel! We _just_ arrived!” said Cormoran, putting his two arms on Mel’s shoulders to steer her away from Robin. Mel laughed, holding Cormoran’s hand to pull him into the living room. “Come, everyone’s here!” said Mel as she carted Cormoran off and he allowed her.

Before Robin could wonder what just happened, Ilsa finally spotted her. “Robin! D’you know what’s become of Cormoran?” she said, relieving her of her casserole dish.

“Oh, he just went into the living room with Mel.” said Robin.

“Oh, he’s here. Didn’t see him arrive.” said Ilsa, pulling her to the kitchen. She didn’t know they arrived together. “I’m glad you came. I want to introduce you to somebody.”

In the kitchen was Nick, speaking to a very handsome man in a black button down shirt and a black sports coat. He had dark hair, though greying a little at the sides, eyes so blue she noticed it from a few feet away. He smiled as he noticed her and Ilsa walk in. Robin thought he looked like he could be Hugh Jackman’s more handsome younger brother.

“Hey, Rob!” said Nick, giving her a kiss hello. “Did Oggy arrive with you?”

“Already in the living room with the St. Mawes peeps.” said Ilsa offhandedly to her husband. “Nice.” said Nick and left the three of them in the kitchen.

“Robin, this is Ewan Toft. He’s a psychologist at Nick’s hospital. Ewan, this is Robin—”

“The famous detective!” said Ewan in a deep and melodious voice, extending a hand to shake Robin’s.

“I’ll leave you two to chat.” said Ilsa with a wink at Robin and then they were alone in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran’s friends lost no time ribbing him about the sudden success of his business and the onslaught of fame he’s experienced. There were numerous asides ranging from him buying everyone a pint to getting them all tickets at the Emirates, assuming his celebrity gave him access to everything he wanted.

He enjoyed seeing them again, and gamely gave as good as he got. There were more people than he was initially expecting, including Dave Polworth’s three daughters currently playing on the floor with the cats.

He missed Cornwall, and the comforting feel of all these friends of his in their local talking about their lives, Doom Bar on tap. He made a mental note of finally scheduling a trip back home, and enjoyed the thought of inviting Robin to come with him.

“Speaking of celebrities!” Penny Polworth exclaimed, eyes on the doorway. Everyone looked at where she was staring and Cormoran was stunned to see one of their old classmates, Gwen Arscott timidly wave to everyone as she stepped inside.

“Ohhh!” the room—full of grown ups with families and mortgages and multiple cars and children—teased as Gwen, deeply embarrassed, made her way to the only empty seat in the room, the loveseat Cormoran was occupying.

He shook his head, but not without laughter. He was suddenly seventeen again, back in St. Mawes, these same friends wolf-whistling at him as he tore himself away from them every time Gwen Arscott walked by.

She was beautiful as ever, with her short brunette hair, light eyes, and dimpled smile. She always had an air of demure grace about her, a composure that recalled to Cormoran the heroines in period pieces and Jane Austen. He was surprised to see her there at all. Firstly, because her only connection to these people was him and secondly, because she is now a pretty famous stage actress. Indeed, the last time he saw her was in the news, accepting a Tony Award for a Broadway revival of an Ibsen play whose title he couldn’t remember.

The room interrogated her for a bit, asking about the Tony’s, Mel asking if she’d be open to pose for a cover, Penny and Ilsa inquiring about Hollywood actors they heard she was friends with or dated. She answered them all with friendliness, and in that soft whisper Cormoran remembered well. He wondered idly how she is on stage—having never seen her work before—if she musters a booming voice with that tiny body.

When conversation splintered into smaller ones, she finally turned to him, “How are you, C.B.?”

She pronounced it ‘seabie’, a nickname only she had ever used, born from him being the only person to call her ‘Gigi’ to acknowledge her other name, Giselle.

He was transported to St. Mawes again, to sunny days in a tiny boat, and sixteen-year-old Gigi Arscott smiling dimply up at the sun. He recalled, too, the last time he had seen her in person. She had been inconsolable in his arms, his own bravado crumbling at the thought of their parting. She was going to Juilliard, and he, Oxford.

Before Charlotte, there was her.

And then, as though a bubble popped and reminded him of his real life, his true self, he scanned the room to see everyone there except one.

Where’s Robin?

He stood up quite abruptly, excusing himself only as an afterthought and left the room to find his present, his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope they still sound like they're in character! Lol. The image of Robin in my head is pretty much purely Holliday Grainger who seems like she'd be a laugh.


	5. “What about Robin?”

 

 

 

So her roommate hadn’t told Ilsa about Cormoran spending the night after all. She ought to have given him more credit, but some part of her _wished_ he had said something. Taking into account that Ilsa meant well, and is likely a good judge of character, she still found that she didn’t like being set up.

Robin supposed that Ewan Toft was objectively attractive. He had a salt-and-pepper thing going on that suited him well. She supposed that his chiseled jaw was quite mesmerising to look at, and his surprisingly sheepish smile a little flattering. He was obviously significantly older, maybe in his early forties, but his skin was smooth and clear unlike any she’s seen in men— not even Matthew’s. She supposed, objectively speaking, that she was intrigued, that if the circumstances were different, she’d be interested.

She couldn’t even concentrate on what he was saying now. Something about psychology. Nick or Ilsa told him she studied psychology in school, and even asked after professors he thought Robin would know. She was quite bored of him talking lengthily about himself, her mind drifting to an irrational image of Mel sitting on Cormoran’s lap. She seemed like the type to sit on laps of men who aren’t her boyfriend.

“Will you excuse me for a sec?” she interrupted Ewan mid-sentence. He was pleasant and polite, standing up himself as she got up to go to the loo.

She passed by the living room and spotted Cormoran. No Mel on his lap, but he was talking to a beautiful brunette who looked oddly familiar. She took a giant step across the other side of the doorway when she saw him shift. She didn’t want him to catch her staring.

She isn’t the jealous type, not really. Though she supposed if she had been a little more jealous, she’d have realised her husband was _fucking_ Sarah Shadlock on _their_ bed (he really is a shit), but Cormoran does attract—and is attracted to—very beautiful, glamorous, posh women. She’s never really thought about where she fell amongst them, and recognised it was probably not a good idea to start.

When she exited the loo, she ran into him.

“Oof!” she said, and he chuckled at their collision. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Looking for you.” he said, smiling. “C’mon.” he said, and took her hand and whisked her out into Nick and Ilsa’s back garden.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran heard conversation in the kitchen. He found Ilsa leaning by her kitchen island, and quite randomly, Ewan Toft taking the turkey out of the oven.

“Hey, Corm!” said Ilsa, with a telling smile, sipping a glass of red. “So, Gwen Arscott,”

Ewan Toft put the pan down on the counter and smiled pleasantly at Cormoran. “Oh hi, Cormoran. Did you say Gwen Arscott, Ilsa? Saw her in _A Doll’s House_ last time I was in New York. Nothing like her Rebecca West, but she gets Ibsen unlike anyone I’ve ever witnessed on stage.”

“You should ask her out, Ewan.” said Cormoran, Ilsa sputtered into her drink. “She’s right in the living room.”

“Is she really?” said the man, excited.

“Yep. Can’t miss her.” he gestured for him to go. He stayed put.

“But how do you know her?” he asked Cormoran.

He shrugged. “Knew her as a teen. This is a sixth form reunion you’re at.”

“Is she really here, Ilsa?”

“What about Robin?” she asked, indignant.

“What about Robin?” said both men, though Ewan said it in a throwaway way that made Cormoran want to flick him on the forehead.

Ilsa, however, was staring at Cormoran as though reading him. He knew Ilsa well and knew she was tipsy. Dinner hasn’t even started. He saw from the corner of his eye Ewan Toft leaving.

“Really, Ils?” he finally said.

“What’s it to you if I set Robin up?” she said with a narrowed expression, testing him.

“Did she ask to be set up?”

Ilsa laughed. “She’s a pretty girl, Corm. Whether I set her up or not, she’s going to find somebody if you keep sitting on your hands.”

He fought the smirk threatening to form on his lips. But he was appalled that it had been Ewan Toft, of all people. Quite apart from him being his ex-girlfriend Elin’s brother, he was also too old for Robin.

“But Ewan Toft, though?” he asked in frank bewilderment.

Ilsa shrugged. “He saw a photo of her on Facebook and asked for an introduction, so I invited him tonight.”

“He’s about fifty!”

“But he looks _incredible_!”

“Who looks incredible?” said Nick, joining them.

At the same time Cormoran asked, “Have you seen Robin?”, Ilsa said “Ewan.”

“Saw her by the loo, Oggy.” said Nick, and then shook his head at his wife, “Botox.”

Cormoran sniggered as he walked away.

 

* * *

 

Nick and Ilsa’s back garden was transformed. Fairly lights adorned the plants around, and hung like garlands overhead a long table set for a dozen people, and a smaller circular table to the side.

Robin thought it was beautiful and romantic, and she squeezed Cormoran’s hand holding hers. He squeezed back.

They sat next to each other on two random chairs. Robin noticed the place setting on the plate in front of Cormoran. It said ‘Gwen Arscott’. The one on her plate only said ‘Oggy’.

“Is that Gwen Arscott the theater actress?” she asked him, gesturing to the place setting.

“What?” Cormoran asked, and then “Oh, yeah. She’s here.”

“I thought that was her. You were being set up too, were you?”

Cormoran grinned. “Are you jealous?” he asked, blowing smoke away from her face. His other hand was under the table, entwined with hers.

“No.” she said, laughing. “I just want to know how Ilsa knows her. Maybe she can introduce me to Benedict Cumberbatch.”

Cormoran chuckled. “We went to school with her back in Cornwall. Surprised she’s here, actually.”

Something in his expression made her ask, “But you two dated, didn’t you?”

He kissed her cheek. She smiled.

“From our GSCE year until she left for Juilliard.” he said.

“And Mel?”

Cormoran was surprised at this. “What about Mel?”

“You two were very cozy back there when she saw you.”

Cormoran laughed heartily.

“What’s so funny?”

“You probably have a better shot at Mel than I do.”

“Oh!” said Robin, catching his drift. “I didn’t realise.” Robin felt elated at this, realising she got a bit jealous of the clingy blonde that so amorously greeted her boyfriend.

“Did you like the look of Ewan Toft?” he asked her.

It was her turn to grin. “Are _you_ jealous?”

“No.” he said, petulant. “Nick says he gets botox injections.”

Robin thought as much. “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “That’s not really a deal-breaker for me.”

Cormoran made a face, it made her laugh. He let go of her hand, taking the place setting bearing Gwen Arscott’s name and extended his reach to every plate until he found hers.

As Robin laughed, watching him make quite a mess of Ilsa’s well-decorated table, she pocketed the one bearing his childhood monicker.

“Aha!” he said, triumphant, throwing the incorrect place holder unceremoniously on a far-off plate. She laughed.

_Is it always like this?_

“Hm?” Cormoran asked, looking back at her.

She didn’t realise she spoke out loud.

“Is it always this easy?” Robin asked, fingers softly on his brow. “Dating someone new. Does it always feel this _right_?”

He smiled, shaking his head. “No.” and then leaned in, kissing her softly. “Just this.”

“Oy!” called a voice from behind them. They turned around at the same time, everybody was staring at them from Nick and Ilsa’s kitchen. It had been Mel who yelled. “If you two are quite done falling in love, the children need feeding!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the awesome comments on previous chapters!!!
> 
> They're so great to get because I'm always so surprised with what people take away, you know? Like, some "throwaway" lines there end up resonating with people and it changes even your perspective on your own story. <3


	6. “Don’t you just love when it’s new?”

 

 

 

“So much for not telling,” murmured Cormoran into Robin’s hair as she burrowed her face in his neck, a little embarrassed they were caught. It amused him that instead of leaning away, she, in fact, leaned _in._ For two detectives whose business rests on discretion, they were shockingly bad at keeping _this_ particular secret under wraps.

He knew he was partly (or largely) to blame for it. He literally couldn’t get enough of her. The last time he’s felt like this for a woman… well, best not to dwell just then.

His friends took a while to get in order, as Cormoran made a complete mess of the seat plan. “Oh, does it matter!” Mel exclaimed, just grabbing whichever seat and everyone else fell in line. He ought to apologise, especially as Ilsa was glaring at him from across the table.

“What happened to Gwen Arscott and McSteamy?” Mel commented. Indeed, Ewan Toft and Gwen were no longer around, and Cormoran thought he preferred it that way.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your date, Corm?” Penny prompted.

“This is Robin,” he said, smiling at her, proud. She beamed at everyone who introduced themselves to her. “You work with Cormoran, don’t you?” Penny continued.

“Um, yeah.” Robin replied.

“D’you remember the Chiswell case, Pen? That was Robin!” said Mel, heaping salad on her plate and passing it on. Cormoran grabbed for the rib slabs and cut a few for Robin and then more for himself.

“Really?” Pen’s eyes were wide. “That was you? I didn’t expect you to be so young!”

“Yeah, Diddy. We didn’t expect her to be so young.” Dave interjected, his phrasing loaded with a different meaning.

They talk about the Chiswell case a bit. He let Robin run the conversation, focusing instead on piling their plates with food. He tried not to watch her eating too closely, even though he knew she’s barely eaten all day and is now consuming her full plate by the string bean.

He knew it had something to do with that photo she saw over lunch.

“So, how long have you two been dating?” Penny asked pleasantly.

“Ah, two weeks?” Robin replied, smiling at Cormoran. He smiled back.

“We were together last Saturday!” Ilsa interjected.

“God, I miss dating!” Mel exclaimed. Mel had informed everyone earlier that she’s left her wife of two years. “Don’t you just love when it’s _new_? When it’s all lovey-dovey and touching and _sex_?” and then added, “God, I miss sex!”

The table erupted in laughter.

As the rest of the night progressed, Cormoran marvelled at how Robin fit in so well with his best friends. She showed genuine glee as Penny rehashed the story of her youngest’s birth (“She came out of me literally in the lobby!”), went with Mel’s amusing and flirtatious overtures (“Call me if it goes tits up with this lump,” said Mel, “because I’d like to marry you.”), even intelligently inquired with Dave about matters of civil engineering (“D’you have an interest for building, Rob?”).

She was so charming, ingratiating, and funny that each of his friends would later feel compelled to pull him aside and tell him how much they liked her. Even little Polly Polworth, who sleepily told her Uncle Cowmowan to bring Robin next time he visited, and if he couldn’t make it, that it would be perfectly alright if she came alone.

Charlotte never came remotely close. These same friends would sigh exasperatedly every time he told them he’d gotten back together with her, would ask him in the most tactful way possible if he was planning to bring Charlotte to gatherings as though they needed fair warning. Mel, the bluntest of his friends, would whine like a child to his face saying, “Please don’t bring Crazy Campbell, Oggy! She’s a fucking drag!”

Right now, under the fairy lights, surrounded by his favourite people in the world, Robin laughing heartily at Nick’s corny joke, he couldn’t remember what had been so alluring about the tempestuous us-against-the-world insanity he subjected himself in the hands of Charlotte Campbell.

He felt Robin lean against him heavily, tired he could tell, and a little drunk. She turned her head to him and he felt her forefinger on his chin. She moved his face to her, smiled, and kissed him on the mouth.

She tasted like chocolate pudding and wine.

 _What a right idiot you are, Cormoran Strike,_ he thought, as he kissed her again. _You could’ve had this for years!_

 

* * *

 

Robin enjoyed meeting Cormoran’s friends, enjoyed it even more being able to sit with him and freely lean against him and rest her arm on his thigh and let him whisper clarifications to inside jokes and stories she wasn’t privy to.

She found that she enjoyed people knowing. Enjoyed the feeling that she belonged to him, and he to her, and that people _knew_. It didn’t annoy her like it did when people referred to her as Matthew Cunliffe’s wife.

Matthew, she thought now, wanted to possess her. To mark her as his territory, to parade her among the boys as the beautiful trophy wife in his arm, in a clinging dress and a bright smile.

She thought she detested public displays of affection, and yet she liked how Cormoran’s arms were behind her the whole night, how he would absently trail his thumb up her arm (and she _hated_ having her arm touched—it was the one with the scar), how he would sometimes laugh into her hair and kiss above her ear, or whisper something naughty or hilarious to make her giggle.

Cormoran isn’t possessing her, isn’t marking her. He’s making up for lost time.

 

* * *

 

 _This was a very good day_ , Cormoran thought as he ran his palms up and down Robin’s back, cradling her in his arms again, kissing her by her front door. _This was a very, very good day._

“Stay?” she whispered in the interval of their mouths moving lazily over each other. He saw that her eyes were lidded, and she was heavy on him, clearly already sleepy.

He was going to ask if he could stay, of course, but was thrilled that it was she who said it first.

In the most unguarded, drunkest parts of his mind he thought he’d probably move in if she’d let him, so unwilling was he now to tear himself away from her side.

He knew, deep down, there were practicalities they had to talk about, realities they had to face. He supposed it would probably do them some good to slow down, but this felt like the culmination of three years of knowing and liking her. They had gone through a lot since they’ve met (her more than him, he thought), and he felt as though they were due some reprieve, some time off in their little cocoon where mangled bodies and painful pasts and vindictive exes couldn’t penetrate.

She led him quietly into her flat, placing his hand on her hip as they walked up the staircase, reminiscent of the first time she invited him to her bed. That had only been twenty-four hours ago, but this thing between them—the intimacy, the affection—somehow felt like it had always existed.

She fell asleep as her head hit the pillow, one hand halfway done with unbuttoning her dress, the other reaching for him. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest awhile, then marvelled at her peaceful face as he unbuckled his prosthesis. He undressed her gently down to her underthings to make her comfortable, and as he wrapped his large arm on her waist and pulled her close to him, he vowed to do whatever it takes to keep her.

 

* * *

 

_Robin was in a wedding dress, twirling under the fairy lights of Nick and Ilsa’s back yard. She was waiting for her groom, or the vague concept of a groom that had no particular face to him. And then Matthew was there, dressed like a Disney Prince in navy and gold, handsome as ever._

_“I need your earrings. Your diamond earrings.” he tells her, his voice garbled as though they were speaking underwater. “I haven’t got diamond earrings.” she tells him. “You never gave me any.”_

_“I need your dress. Your wedding dress. She’ll have to wear it. She’s my wife now.” says Matthew’s echo, and she sees from Nick and Ilsa’s kitchen Sarah Shadlock in her wedding dress, in the diamond earring that she stepped on, face melting with the scene as the rain started to pour._

_Nick and Ilsa’s backyard has washed away, the fairy lights are gone and she is in her bathroom, naked and wet and looking up at Cormoran’s face. She clings to him and his face morphs into this look of menace and suddenly he’s too close, too large and too frightening that she stumbles and falls down and down a deadly staircase._

_She falls with a thud, on their farty couch in Denmark Street, and Noel Brockbank is on her, knife high up ready to plunge as he cackled, “Do I know you little girl?”_

_The deadly knife plummets and explodes as it collides with her skin. It isn’t a knife anymore, but a gun. The pain is searing and hot and Noel Brockbank now bears Raphael Chiswell’s face, no longer handsome but monstrous. “I’ve killed him, Venetia. He’s dead. You can’t put him back together.”_

_She shoves him off but now she’s bobbing in a sea of acid and torn limbs, in a wedding dress sodden with blood. A hand reaches for her and it’s Cormoran, again, handsome and fit and two-legged, pulling her to him, telling her to come back to bed. “But I’m hurt, Cormoran. I’m bleeding.”_

_He smiles and he morphs in to a version of him and a version of Matthew that she can’t be sure which is which. “That’s okay. We can be hurt together.” he says and she hugs this man that is not quite Cormoran and not quite Matthew and she’s back at the stairs at her wedding, and her hair is falling in distressing clumps and her feet are prickling from standing on a bed of a million diamond earrings and she runs, runs, runs away from it all until she is caught and pinned down and she is on her bed and it creaks as he pounces on her and she twists, alarmed, and it’s clearly Matthew. He’s jostling the bed to creak, tearing her green dress off her compliant body and she is begging no, no and he is Donald Laing, strangling her, and he pulls off his mask and he’s the nondescript man that haunts her nightmares, despondent and meek and so, so terrifying._

_“Play dead, play dead.” she begs her unresponsive body imagining herself clawing desperately for him to let go, her arms limp at her sides. He kisses her, hard on the mouth and pulls himself up and he is Cormoran again, kind-faced and squeezing her neck, and she’s croaking “Oggy, oggy.” and she feels like she’s dying, dying, dead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. This took a turn.


	7. "What do you need?"

 

 

 

He could feel her twitching, squirming in his arms. Her bed wasn’t huge at all, barely made for two people let alone someone of his size. He felt her every move, heard her breathing rapidly, like she was bobbing in water and panicking to stay afloat.

Cormoran moved off her, saw her claw at her neck as though trying to pry an invisible hand off her throat. “Robin!” he said sternly, grabbing for his shirt on the floor, sitting her upright, putting it on her.

She opened her eyes and gasped, hands extending, eyes unseeing as she felt for something. Cormoran heaved off the bed, hopping to turn on the light switch. He heard a terrible bang and Robin was slowly sitting down by her bed, still breathing rapidly as though drowning, cheeks streaming with blood and tears.

Cormoran practically lunged to her, holding her face, checking her wound. It was steadily trickling down the side like a stream of tears. She’ll need stitching.

“What do you need? Baby, what do you need?” he half-pleaded, hands to her beautiful, streaked face. She clutched at his biceps and squeezed tight, holding on for dear life. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” he said.

“What’s going on?” Cormoran heard Robin’s roommate, Anthony, feet shuffling towards her room. He heard the door open, a gasp then, “What did you do to her?”

“Call 999,” Cormoran told him. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave her even just to grab his phone. “She’s having a panic attack.”

Anthony withdrew and Cormoran heard muffled voices outside but could only register Robin’s still rapid breathing, her hand tight on his arm. He pulled the peach bed cover and used it to apply pressure to her wound.

“They’ll be here in five minutes.” said Anthony, and then unable to stop himself, “Cormoran, why is she bleeding?”

“Hit her head on the nightstand.”

She’s calmed down a bit when the paramedics arrived, and watched as Anthony and a first responder helped her shakily down the stairs. He dressed in haste, cursing himself as he put his damn leg on. He didn’t have crutches at her flat, and he had to let them take her to the hospital as he made himself whole.

He got there ten minutes later, and the kind nurse who called him Mr. Cunliffe assured him she would be with him soon.

“How is she?” he asked as he sat next to Anthony. His stump smarted. It felt raw. He knew he didn’t put his leg on right.

“Better, I think.” he said in his American accent. “She asked after you.”

Anthony clearly thought it would cheer him up. All Cormoran heard was that he wasn’t there. Because of his fucking leg.

He heard the click of a pen.

“What’s Robin’s middle name again?” asked Anthony. He had one of those hospital clipboards resting on his salmon trousers. Cormoran dimly wondered how Anthony was able to dress impeccably, even at 2 in the morning during an emergency.

“Venetia Hall.” Cormoran heard himself croak, his mouth was very dry. As Anthony scribbled neatly on the intake form, Cormoran felt very grateful for him. His own hands, he realised, were shaking.

“Allergies?”

“Kiwi.”

“Medications?”

“Er, birth control.” said Cormoran, and then, “She takes vitamins.”

“Oh yeah!” said Anthony. “We take the same ones. I don’t know if you’re supposed to put that down…” he said, going off tangent about vitamins that Cormoran barely heard. He was staring at the closed door as though willing Robin to emerge from it.

“Existing conditions… diabetes, no. Epilepsy… she isn’t epileptic?” Anthony asked.

“What?” said Cormoran and then shook his head. “No.”

“Cancer, no. Multiple sclerosis, no. Depression—“

“She isn’t depressed.” Cormoran interjected. How long does it take to get stitched up?

“—No. Skin diseases, no. Pacemaker?!” he heard Anthony’s bewilderment as he prattled on. The sound of his chatter was soothing in this cold, sterile waiting room. “No. Parkinson’s Disease, I don’t think so… Pregnant—“

“Pre…” Cormoran repeated absently, and then shot up as Robin finally walked out of the emergency ward, flush-faced with a bandage on her temple but otherwise alright. He only had one leg left, but felt both turn to jelly.

Before he knew it, they were clinging to each other.

“What kind of dummy hits her head on the night stand?” she said, laughing shakily against him. He hugged her tighter. He felt her hand rub at his back. “I’m okay.” she said, reassuring him. “I’m okay.”

 

* * *

 

Robin remembered the desperation of wanting to forget the dream that set off her panic attack. Now, as she rode in Cormoran’s BMW, she found herself wishing she remembered.

Her head throbbed as she tried to remember details slipping away as though it was water she was trying to hold with her bare hands. It nagged at her. She knew it had to have been terrifying, but thought it must be important.

 _Something about… Matthew_ , she assumed, willing her brain to focus. She had the impression she’d been running barefoot over a bed or nails or tiny pebbles. She thought they may have been at Nick and Ilsa’s, but she might have been conflating that with what she had done last night.

She looked over at Cormoran, whose eyes were laser focused on the road, hand gripping hers tightly. _Was he there?_ _Was he in her terrifying dream?_

“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we went back and the house was empty?” said Anthony nervously in the back seat. “Like, if Etienne just robbed us blind?”

He was talking about how they had to leave his one night stand alone at the flat. It didn’t make her feel better.

“Nothing seems to be missing,” said Anthony as he walked in first, going into the kitchen as though determined to check. Robin headed straight upstairs, feeling Cormoran’s large looming figure following her sedately behind. Passing by Anthony’s room, the door was open and a very muscly man in black underwear was dozing on the bed. She found it funny, but the thought of laughing was making her nauseous.

That Cormoran wasn’t speaking was ominous. She heard him sit on her creaky bed— _Was that in my dream?_ she thought idly—and saw him massaging his knee. “Does your leg hurt?” she asked, removing the purple silk pyjamas Anthony put on her before she left with the paramedics.

“‘m fine,” Cormoran grunted, slowly moving to remove his trousers and prosthesis. She could sense he was angry. She tried hard not to ask herself if it was her that he’s mad at, how she so spectacularly came apart and hurt herself in the process. She recalled how adamant he had been about her not looking at that photo. But she had been stubborn, and regretted it, and now her panic attacks are back.

She felt it again. The tight constricting at her throat, the throb of her temple spreading to the rest of her head as her sight fixated on the brown stain on her nightstand. She gripped her metal headboard for support, sitting as slowly down her bed as possible, regulating her breathing, concentrating on not flying apart. _Don’t hear, don’t hear_.

She felt the weight of his arm on her shoulder, the press of his lips on her head. He felt like steady ground to her, solid footing—an anchor to bring her back to Earth when she felt as though she was floating away.

She only realised she was crying when she felt his fingers wiping her cheek. “You don’t have to keep this from me.” he told her gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

* * *

 

She reached up to him, hand cupping his nape, fingers in his hair. She kissed him, open mouthed and messy, face wet with tears and saliva. She pushed up at him, knees on either side of him, straddling his lap.

She kissed him like she was drowning, as though the very last molecules of air that’s left is in his lungs. He held her firmly in his arms and breathed deeply as she rocked, as she clutched at his back and pulled at his shirt as though willing him to be closer to her, to be subsumed, to feel safe.

It is glorious, he thought as he felt her surrounding him, as she moved them both back and forth and the bed creaked, as she cried and kissed and gasped and moaned. She is scared, he knew, and only him in this way could comfort her, reassuringly sturdy and firm as he held onto her in a grounding embrace.

She came in his arms and wept openly into his neck. He cradled her until she hushed, whispering words of comfort that felt inadequate to assuage her fears. “I’ve got you,” he said, trying. “Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

 

* * *

 

Cormoran awoke as the bed jerked repeatedly. He opened one eye and saw Robin red-faced and annoyed, violently trying to get her bed to move off the wall while he was still in it. He grinned as he felt the bed give, making a terrible scraping sound against the floor.

He was impressed. Robin, he knew, was stronger than she looked.

“I could get off if you’re going to keep doing that.” Cormoran offered, though made no move.

He felt his own mood lift as the agitated look on her face softened to a smile.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyes darting off her face to the patch of wall where the metal bed leaned.

“The bed chipped at the wall’s paint job.” she huffed, running her palm over the visible cracking on the wall. There was a fairly large hole of exposed concrete grey when it was supposed to be pristine white. “And I think it’s grooving into the floor.”

“Are you calling me fat?” said Cormoran, unable to resist. She laughed. He liked making her laugh. He thought about making a ribald joke, but thought better of it. “This isn’t an adult’s bed, Robin. Where’d you get it?”

“Ahm, Mr. Crowdy.” she said casually, not looking him in the eyes.

“Crowdy!?” he exclaimed, appalled and disgusted he’d been sleeping—that _she’d_ been sleeping on that old perv’s bed.

“The mattress is new!” she said, laughing as she laid on the bed next to him (it doesn’t creak when she does it, Cormoran noticed), clad in a clinging tracksuit that showed off her lean figure. “That’s why I needed a cheap bed, because I had to buy the mattress.”

He reached for her, hand on her stomach, burrowing his fingers under clothing to touch bare skin. She absently pulled at the hair on his arm. “You’re so hairy.” She smiled at him. He grinned at her, profoundly glad she seemed alright now this morning, profoundly glad he was in her horrid bed.

A faint patch of blood from her stitches was visible on the gauze on her head.

Without thinking he said, “You don’t have to come in tom—”

“Don’t.” she said warningly, face immediately red, eyes immediately watering.

He felt a chill as he looked into her upset face, but found that he meant every word of his offer. He moved his hand to cup her cheek and was relieved she didn’t push his hand away.

“But you’re hurt.”

“Cormoran,” she said, lips quivering, her blue-grey eyes terrified and guttingly disappointed. “You promised.”

This, he thought, is their true beginning. This is what it means to be who they are, do what they do, and be together. There’ll be many of these, he knew, because he is as protective as she is stubborn.

 _“Either I’m your partner or I’m not,”_ she once said to him. _“If you’re going to treat me like some piece of special-occasion china that gets taken out when you don’t think I’ll get hurt, we’re doomed.”_

He can see it in his mind’s eye, the pristine wall of their would-be life together, and the many little standoffs they’re bound to have, chipping away at it. _We’re doomed._

A different tact.

“Feeling any pain?”

“No.” she said plainly, glaring at him, staring him down. He wiped an angry tear away with his thumb.

“Are you doing your CB—”

At that, she rose off the bed abruptly and fled out of the room. Cormoran stared at the empty space where her body had just been. This had been her only caveat: that he temper the instinct to overprotect--and on the very first chance he got to prove to her that he was a man who kept his promises, he failed her spectacularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who was being ott? Robin or Cormoran?
> 
> Sometimes it's fuzzy, sappy fluff. Sometimes it's this. Variety is the spice of life!


	8. "Was that what I thought it was?"

 

 

 

As Cormoran walked up to Nick and Ilsa’s, he finally decided that Robin was in the wrong. At least, more in the wrong than he was on this specific instance.

His methodical mind dissected the unsatisfactory exchange:

He didn’t tell her not to come to work, he _offered_ in case she needed it. (Never mind that he knew Robin knew perfectly well that he meant she _shouldn’t_ work tomorrow.) He was also well within his rights to ask after her, given that 1) she has a visible wound on her head, 2) he had been there, and 3) _I’m her bloody boyfriend, aren’t I?_ he thought grumpily. He was even—and he had to use some scrap paper to tally—keeping up with his avowed once-a-week-only inquiry about the CBT.

How was that being overprotective? If he had been any _less_ protective, he might as well not give a fuck. No, he was annoyed. She had been childish, walking out without a resolution or even saying goodbye. Whatever happened to ‘never go to bed angry’, or other such bollocks she must’ve been inundated with when she got married?

 _“You didn’t want to save me, Bluey, you wanted to solve me.”_ Charlotte’s voice suddenly wafted in his mind.

Ilsa’s face was eloquent with unspoken insinuation the moment she opened the door. He had been summoned precisely for this, he thought, a debrief of last night’s stunning revelation. She had lured him with leftovers and a casual invite to Robin for him to relay. He hadn’t planned on going, but staying in Robin’s bedroom without her and the prospect of returning to his dreary attic flat were both mildly depressing.

“Heard back from Joseph Gale,” she started, taking a seat opposite him on her kitchen island; the countertop filled with a full spread. “He’s in Greece until the 14th, but he can get in touch next week.”

“Sounds great.” he said, biting on a bacon strip before it reached his plate. He always found it amusing when Ilsa worked up to whatever it is she wanted to really say.

“And you left your invite to Polly’s 5th birthday party last night.” she said, handing him a pink envelope. “Don’t open it, it’s full of glitter.” she warned.

“Thanks.” said Cormoran, folding the envelope in half imprecisely and shoving it in his back pocket.

“Why didn’t you tell me you and Robin have started going out?”

 _There it is_.

He grinned. “We weren’t planning on telling.”

She gave him a blank stare and he guffawed, then coughed as his toast went down the wrong pipe. Cormoran cleared his throat. “Seriously.” and then in a burst of playfulness, “I can’t help it if I’m so irresistible.”

Ilsa laughed. “You could’ve told _me_ , you know. Would’ve saved some people some time.”

“Who, Ewan Toft?” said Cormoran, indignant. “Didn’t he cop off with _Tony Award-winning_ Gwen Arscott last night? He can’t feel too bad!”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Ilsa conceded and then smiling, “You’re happy.”

“Yeah, I am.” said Cormoran immediately, earnest. He noticed a hint of uncertainty on Ilsa’s face. “What?”

She changed her expression. “What?”

Cormoran didn’t reply, but waited.

“Just be careful, okay?” she sighed.

Cormoran was surprised. He knew Ilsa had opinions on how he treated Lorelai, and he supposed she was right to think them, but Lorelai isn’t Robin. “I won’t break her heart.”

Ilsa smiled. “I don’t really mean _her_ heart, Corm.” She said. “I meant yours.”

Before Cormoran could ask Ilsa what she meant, Nick walked in the kitchen.

“Hey, Oggy.” he said, attention not on him but on the cat he was cuddling. “No Robin this morning?”

“At her MMA class.” Cormoran replied, though he realised he wasn’t really sure if that was true. Will her instructor let her work with bandage all over her head?

Nick joined them. “Mel wants you to know that she’s disappointed you started your sugar daddy phase before she did.”

Cormoran smirked. “Did you tell her Robin’s not actually twenty-two?” he retorted. Mel had texted him as much, thinking Robin was five years younger than she is.

“Yeah, but she didn’t believe me. Robin did look younger last night, a little bit. Very giggly. She’s not usually giggly.”

“I can’t help it if I’m so irresistible.” Cormoran joked again and laughed as Ilsa playfully pointed a fork at him.

“What are you getting her for her birthday?” Ilsa asked.

That had been on Cormoran’s mind for a time now, and he was a little worried he hasn’t figured it out when it’s already the day after the next. He thought he finally had an idea and ran it past his friends.

“Whew, Oggy.” said Nick, clapping him on the back. Ilsa just gave him a look.

 

* * *

 

“What happened to you?!” Vanessa exclaimed upon sight of Robin. They were outside a fitness studio. In the aftermath of the Chiswell case, Robin felt frustrated with men physically overpowering her. Vanessa, frequenter of fitness classes, invited her to an MMA class she took every Sunday.

“Hit my head.” she replied, dismissively. “Van, listen—”

“Did you get stitches? I don’t think Louise is going to let you into class today like this.” said her friend, eyes not on her face, but on her wound. Robin was annoyed. What was it about the people in her life treating her with kid gloves?

“Van, can I see—”

“Did he do this to you?” Vanessa said, appalled.

“What?!” Robin exclaimed, caught completely off-guard and flabbergasted that Vanessa would even insinuate. “No! Corm—”

“Cormoran?” Vanessa asked, bewildered.

It dawned on Robin then that she meant someone else. _Matthew._

“Have they got him?” Robin asked, immediately concerned.

Vanessa sighed. “Picked him up jogging this morning.”

“He hasn’t been arrested!”

“No, just called him in for questioning.”

“Why would you think Matthew did this to me?” Robin asked.

Vanessa looked around as though afraid they’d be overheard. She pulled Robin into a noisy juice bar. Robin was worried. If Vanessa thought she’s been attacked by Matthew, they must have something that further implicates him on the woman’s attack.

A flash of the image. It felt seared in her brain. She went to class to ask Vanessa to see it again, feeling like there was a detail that she missed. Now with it fresh in her mind’s eye, she felt her surroundings fogging. _Focus_.

“What do they have on him?” she asked when they got drinks and finally found a booth.

“There’s a video.” Vanessa said, expression ominous. “A CCTV video of Matthew Friday night, dragging a dark-haired woman into an alley by the elbow then walking away.”

“The woman at the hospital?” Robin asked, feeling sick to her stomach.

“We still can’t tell. Carver’s called in forensics for a facial reconstruction, but last I heard the woman’s face was still too swollen to get accurate mapping.”

“Oh god.”

“That’s what Carver would be asking Matthew about first, I’m sure. But some plain clothes guys I know are asking round the area, looking for her. Might be a different woman—hopefully a different woman. The CCTV shows her screaming after him when he was walking away from her. They had rowed.”

Robin could picture it clearly. Matthew, angry, always leery of what strangers thought of him, grabbing her by the wrist to drag her somewhere more private just to snipe at her when his anger and irritation and frustration couldn’t keep until they got home.

Robin shook her head, thinking. None of it convinced her that the straight-laced, staid Matthew Cunliffe would do something this heinous whether he’s stone cold sober or drunk off his arse. Apart from it being unspeakably horrific, Matthew is far too ambitious, and even more importantly, not at all imaginative.

“But it’s not great for him,” Vanessa continued. “It places him at The Viaduct Tavern the night of the attack.”

“What’s their timeframe for when it happened? She wouldn’t have been attacked at the bar.” said Robin. “It would have to be at the hotel, wouldn’t it?”

“I don’t know about that yet. I only get info from Oliver, and he barely tells me anything.” said Vanessa, a little morosely. Robin met Oliver previously and thought him to be overly cautious, but then he had been faced with two detectives he’s never met before. She was surprised to find out that he was like that, even with his girlfriend. “Everyone else is wary of talking to me. They’re practically treating me like a pariah! Carver’s buddies with the new Commissioner and it’s giving him even more reason to be smug.”

“That sounds awful.” Robin did feel bad that her friend was being poorly treated at work because of her. But Vanessa laughed. “It’s not too bad. It’s just with the case. Threw Eric for a loop though, I can tell you that. He’s used to charming files off of beat cops’ hands. Richard Anstis would have more luck, he’s higher up. You could ask him.”

“Why would he help me?” asked Robin.

Then Vanessa’s mouth curled to a shrewd smile. “He’s good friends with Cormoran.”

Robin looked at her.

“Was that what I thought it was, yesterday over lunch?”

Despite herself, despite everything, Robin couldn’t stop the grin that formed on her face.

“Robin Venetia Ellacott!” Vanessa actually squealed. Robin looked around, a little embarrassed, but only saw clumps of other women in similar tracksuits chattering animatedly with their own girlfriends.

“How long has that been going on?”

“Not too long,” said Robin, feeling giggly. “It’s new.”

“Finally!” said Vanessa. “Tell me everything!”

Robin told Vanessa about how Cormoran had surprised her that he had renamed the business to make them both partners. Told her how she had hugged him, and how he had kissed her. She enjoyed even how Vanessa rolled her eyes when Robin said that Cormoran apologised profusely, and laughed when he offered Ilsa’s services (for him to pay) in case she wanted to file a sexual harassment suit.

This was one of the little things she realised she’s missed out on, staying with Matt all those years—the glee of telling a girlfriend all about her new relationship. She was often in Vanessa’s position, the receiver and reactor of friends’ romantic hits and misses, telling herself how glad she was to be out of the atrocious-sounding dating pool, but some part of her wondering what it would feel like to date and flirt herself.

“—and we had to run off, because Cormoran’s brother walked—”

Vanessa waved her hand at Robin’s face. “Enough about the PG stuff, get to the goods!” she said, sipping her green juice with a straw. “How’s the, _you know!_ ” she said, raising her eyebrows knowingly at her.

Robin laughed, and felt her cheeks growing warm. She didn’t think she was prude. She talked about her sex life with girlfriends before, would talk about it with Vanessa even, but she felt a little shy now. Is it because it’s new? Is it because it’s—and it made her blush just to think it— _incredible_ that makes her want to keep it to herself? Like a sexy little secret only she and Cormoran knew?

“That’s how you hit your head, isn’t it?” Vanessa exclaimed, suddenly gasping, wide-eyed. “Is it from the force of his thrusts?” Vanessa joked, miming an exaggerated thrusting motion that made Robin laugh. “No! I genuinely just banged my head in the dark.” She didn’t feel up for telling Vanessa about a nightmare she couldn’t remember and the panic attack that ensued. Like Cormoran, she wouldn’t want her anywhere near Matthew’s case if she found out.

“Fine! Don’t share!” Vanessa pouted, as though Robin denied her sweets, and then more soberly, “I’m really happy for you, Rob. He’s great! He thinks he’s scary, but he’s a sweetie, really.”

Robin smiled. Proud, delighted. “Yeah, he is.” and then, like a mistake has suddenly dawned on her long after the fact, she slumped. “I think I fucked it up.”

“Impossible.” said her friend immediately.

“No, I stormed out before coming here because he told me not to go to work tomorrow.” Robin, who had been very happy, felt very down that she left it like that. She shouldn’t have walked out like a child. _Maybe I am a flake._

“What, over a _boo-boo_?”

If Vanessa knew she had a panic attack so bad she literally split her head open, she would surely be taking Cormoran’s side.

“He’s got to work on that, you know, if he always goes there.” said Vanessa. “If he’s always telling you what you can’t do just because you get a little bit hurt. Show him your hip throw, that’ll shut him up.”

“Shouldn’t you get to class?” Robin asked. She knew their instructor probably wouldn’t let her join today with her injury, but she had to talk to Vanessa. “Actually, Van, have you got any pictures of her? If—if she’s gotten any better?”

“Why?”

“I just wanted to see if I missed something. I didn’t see it properly yesterday.”

“I haven’t been back there since before Carver practically dragged me out of the ICU ward. Do you think you know her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not, I guess, if Matt’s just met her at a pub.” Robin was in two minds. She supposed she wouldn’t know who this woman was, but couldn’t shake the need to know for sure. “What about the CCTV with the woman he rowed with?”

Vanessa sighed. “I want to help you,” she started. “Even if it’s Matthew we’re trying to get out of the nick, but I can’t pass evidence to his wife.”

“Right.” Robin nodded, feeling a little foolish she even asked.

Vanessa squeezed her hand over the table. “Ask Corm to talk to Richard Anstis. Carver will have a harder time firing him if Cormoran Strike somehow got copies of CCTV footage.”

An idea.

“Are there police manning the ICU ward?”

Vanessa looked positively alarmed. “Don’t do that!” she exclaimed, stern and serious. “Robin, if Matthew alibies out, the next person they’ll think will have a motive, is _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How'd plot get in there?! Jk.


	9. "What does he have on Matthew?"

When Robin returned to her flat, it was to find Cormoran in her bedroom, punching one of her pillows inside a pillowcase. Her room, which she had left in disarray that morning, was now neat and clean and bright. Sure, Cormoran had put on garish green linen that didn’t match the rest of her decor ( _Where’d he get it?!_ ), but the hardwood floor’s scuffing had been buffed out, and from the cool draft from the open window and the smell of paint in the air, he had also painted the wall.

Robin was perfectly aware that this was new, that they’re still in their honeymoon phase, last night and this morning notwithstanding. But she also knew Cormoran well, and knew that doing sorts of things like this isn’t just him putting his best foot forward ( _Bad analogy!_ ). Now, if it had been Matt doing something like this ( _Stop thinking about him!)_ she would’ve been suspicious.

He was quite handsome, Robin thought. Not in the sort of way Matthew is handsome—all perfect features and six pack abs and smooth skin—but in a rugged, almost intoxicatingly masculine sort of way that is, well, _hot_. She supposed he could be broody and mysterious and that certainly adds to the allure, but he possesses a quiet confidence that’s very sexy in a man, something that she now realises Matthew fundamentally lacked.

“Hey,” she said finally, walking into the bedroom and sat criss-crossed on the bed.

“Hey,” said Cormoran pleasantly, leaning in for a quick kiss hello. “How was class?”

“I didn’t go,” she said. “Louise probably wouldn’t let me in with this thing on my head.”

“Where’d you go?” he asked, eyes kind, voice soft. It wasn’t suspicious interrogation but gentle inquiry.

“Hung out with Van.” she replied and then, “Sorry I overreacted this morning.”

He smiled, laying down the pillow and joining her on the bed, sitting in front of her. A hand rubbed at her knee. “I’m allowed to ask.” he said, as though reminding.

“I know.” said Robin, absently picking at fuzz on her new green linen. “Where’d you get this bedsheet?”

Cormoran grinned. “Anthony lent it to us. Couldn’t find where you put yours.”

She felt a thrill at his mention of ‘us’. “It’s hideous.” she said, grinning back at him.

“Does your wound hurt?” Cormoran asked, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Just a bit.” said Robin, hands running itself up his arms to rest on the crook of his neck. “Thanks for painting the wall.”

“No problem.” He burrowed his face in her palm, kissing it. “No more panic attacks while you were out?”

She shook her head. “Thanks for tidying up.”

“Sure.” said Cormoran. “And the CBT?”

Robin fought the irritation she felt at this particular question. She didn’t like people inquiring about it, feeling it too personal and something that is solely her business. _He’s allowed to ask_ , she reminded herself, and hoped he would keep to what she noticed have so far been a scheduled weekly check-in.

“I’ll be better at them.” she said, sighing heavily, looking away.

She knew the agitation was mostly towards herself. She had relapsed, feeling as though the work she had done these last few months have been eroded last night. Now she knew Cormoran would be looking at her too closely, would try and shift her away from dangerous work or even any work at all that’s outside the office.

She stood up and she hoped not too briskly. Her mood was sinking quickly, already resenting him for overprotectiveness she knew he hasn’t even shown. _What’s wrong with me?_

“Nope,” said Cormoran, catching her hand. He pulled her by the hip back to him, and she sat on his thigh. She could feel the cold metal of his prosthesis against her exposed ankle.

“You don’t like me asking about the CBT?” he said. She could feel his hot breath against her chest.

She didn’t speak.

“You know, if you talk to me now we might not have to fight about this again ever.” he continued, without heat.

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be better.” she said, hopefully reassuring. “I swear, I’ll be better at them.”

The doorbell rang, and even from her room she could hear the exchange downstairs.

“That’s Wardle.” said Cormoran. Robin recognised him too and sprung up from Cormoran’s lap to get down and greet him.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran was in a little waiting area at New Scotland Yard. Robin was already inside, being interrogated by Roy Carver himself, and it pissed him off she has to face that fucker on top of everything else she’s gone through lately.

“How long has that been going on?” Wardle asked him as the detective sat next to him and offered him a cup of weak tea. Cormoran knew perfectly well he meant him and Robin.

He had a choice back at the flat. Robin suggested that he stay put in her bedroom and just follow a little later, they didn’t need the entire Met knowing about their business. But, it was against Cormoran’s very nature to sit idly when he knew his partner needed him. Even if they weren’t dating, he’d have insisted on driving her to New Scotland Yard, insisted on sitting at the waiting room and glare at all the smug officers who enjoyed it when they have the _private dicks_ at their mercy.

Of course, Wardle finding him right behind Robin as she exited the office is quite different from seeing him walk downstairs of her flat, clearly having just come from her bedroom. But that couldn’t be helped.

Cormoran stared at Wardle, impassive. The copper raised both arms up, backing off. He found it repugnant that Wardle was up for idle gossip as though they were at the pub, and not at New Scotland Yard where his people just carted his girlfriend away for interrogation.

“She isn’t in trouble, we just want to check his alibi.” said Wardle, clearly trying to get Cormoran to lighten up.

Cormoran knew perfectly-fucking-well Robin wasn’t in trouble. “Found him, have you?” Cormoran grunted.

“Dear old Carver was about ready to send panda cars to her, until Vanessa found out he’s been staying in Knightsbridge lately. Very shrewd of her.” said Wardle, implying that he knew she got that info from Robin. “Picked him up jogging in the area. Carver was disappointed. He hoped to bang on your door.”

 _Cunt,_ Cormoran thought.

“What does he have on Matthew?”

Wardle smirked. “What _doesn’t_ he have on him? CCTV of him in the area, footage of him going in and out of The Viaduct Tavern on multiple occasions, sometimes coming out with women. He even fought with one on the night of the attack.”

This piqued Cormoran’s interest.

“Any inside the Malmaison? Inside the pub?” he asked despite himself.

“Nothing inside the hotel, but he could have worn a disguise.” Wardle shrugged. “He’s a rising star in that company of his, very worried about the press finding out he’s been brought in. He wouldn’t have walked around in plain sight, he’s sleeping around on his wife!”

Cormoran looked at Wardle at this, dully offended by the remark.

“No clear shot at the pub.” Wardle continued. “The bar, which had the best vantage point, had no cameras. Owner says patrons complained. How are they going to solicit prostitutes when there’s a camera on their face? Ruins the mood. But we have footage of him going in, him going out. Multiple occasions.”

“How far back?”

“Like a year?”

Cormoran was genuinely surprised at this, even appalled. “A year?”

Wardle clapped him on the back. “She was smart to get out when she did, mate. You’re no prize, but—“

“Never mind that!” said Cormoran cutting him off. “He doesn’t live nor work anywhere near there.”

“Sleeping. A. Round. On. His. Wife.” Wardle punctuated. Cormoran wondered if this relish he has at telling him that Matthew cheated on Robin the entire run of their marriage was to needle him for ghosting Coco, and then dumping Lorelei, who are both his friends.

It registered to him suddenly that Lorelei will find out about him and Robin now, an eventuality that made him feel a little sorry. He always sensed she was jealous of Robin when they were sleeping together, though appreciated that she tried her best to hide it.

“He wouldn’t go anywhere she could run into Robin, would he?”

 _But she goes all around London all the time_ , Cormoran thought. _Something doesn’t add up._

“What’s Matthew saying about the evidence?”

“I don’t know, actually. Carver’s being his usual cunt self about this. Never seen him happier, getting a case with you two at the other side of it instead of showing him up. Only person on the planet I know that hates Robin. I mean, it’s kind of obvious with you, but _Robin_?” said Wardle, dipping again in this hybrid of cop and friend that is also confusing to Strike.

While he likes Eric on occasion, and would agree that their relationship has been mutually beneficial, and that he enjoyed socialising with him and his wife, Cormoran has observed that Wardle thought they were closer friends than Cormoran thinks they are.

“It’s the Brockbank case.” Wardle clarified. “Had to dig himself out of a mountain of shit after what Robin did.”

“Do you know Matthew’s alibi?” Cormoran asked, tempering his anger at his flippancy because he needs more information. “Is it for the attack Friday night?”

“Yep, that I did hear before Carver saw me and yelled for me to get the fuck out. Says he was at his flat. Says he was with Robin.”


	10. "Why'd you meet him?"

“You didn’t tell me you met Matthew Friday night.” said Cormoran the moment they got in his car. His eyebrows, Robin saw, was burrowed in fury and confusion.

She didn’t tell Vanessa that she met Matthew the night of the woman’s attack, because she didn’t know the seriousness of the situation at the time. And if she was being honest, it was something she didn’t want Cormoran to know either.

Was that so wrong of her? When this new relationship is still in its infancy? When she knew she needed some time to sort out for herself this tangled mess that was the end of her marriage? Maybe she _had_ been foolish to jump into something before wrapping up that chapter of her life. This had been one of the things Cormoran inquired about before they started seeing each other, but she had been so exhausted about doing what ought to be done and depriving herself of what she wanted for so long, that she quite literally didn’t stop to think about how careless she was being.

And there were other practical reasons. Cormoran and Matthew detested each other. Matthew from the very first, and Cormoran… well, he always showed restraint until an incident three weeks ago where Matthew went to Denmark Street, drunk, to blame Robin for the shambles that used to be his picturesque life. It nearly came to blows. If she told Cormoran she needed to see Matthew in person last Friday, he would have wanted to be there, and Robin knew that the best way to lose Matt’s precarious cooperation was to spot Cormoran, even at a distance.

After a long stretch of silence, Cormoran continued. “Why?”

Robin was thoroughly miserable. As though she’s made wrong decision after wrong decision.

“Cormoran—”

“Why’d you meet him?” he asked, voice even but she knew better.

“He said he’d only sign the divorce papers in front of me. He wanted that it be the two of us, face to face.”

“At his flat?” Robin could sense questions Cormoran were keeping himself from asking her.

“I said I wouldn’t meet him at his place or mine, so he said we do it at Mango Tree in Belgravia.” It had been where Matthew wanted to propose before he failed doing so and ended up getting down on one knee in front of tramps and the statue of Eros. He wanted to do it where he thought Robin would be reminded of better times, of when she loved him. He had been wrong. It held no such significance for her; he might have had better luck making her meet him in the middle of Piccadilly Circus.

“Did he do it?”

“Do what?”

“Sign the divorce papers.”

“No,” said Robin. “He was too drunk. He was causing a scene and the wait staff asked if we could take our row elsewhere.”

“What was he saying to you?”

Robin cleared her throat, willing herself not to reveal the emotions overflowing within her: how sorry she was that she hadn’t told Cormoran, that she met Matthew at all that night. “Begging me to take him back, berating me for leaving. Cormoran—” she clutched at his bicep that clenched beneath her fingers. She was relieved he didn’t yank it away.

“Did he he put his hands on you?”

“No.” said Robin immediately. 

“Did he touch you in any way?”

“No.” she insisted. “He would never hurt me like that.”

“Then what happened?”

“We took a cab to Knightsbridge. I couldn’t leave him, I thought he’d pass out in the taxi if I left him alone.” she said imploringly, squeezing his arm. “The driver and I eventually got him inside.”

“And then you came to me?” said Cormoran, looking at her now. A double take. “You okay?”

“Y-you’re not mad?” Robin asked, incredulous.

“What, you mean at _you_?”

“Yeah.”

He sighed, pulling over in front of her flat. “I’m not _ecstatic_ that you met him, I mean he’s a total arse—”

Robin had unbuckled herself and lunged at him, throwing herself onto him that her bum made the horn honk a few spurts as she settled. “Robin!” Cormoran laughed as she kissed his face. “We’re in _public!”_

“Seriously, you’re not mad at me?” she asked again, beaming at him.

“Why would I be mad that you met him?” he looked genuinely confused.

“Because I didn’t tell you that I did— but only because I thought you wouldn’t let me—”

He jerked his head, bewildered. “ _Let_ you? Robin, it’s up to you what you do. I only wished you told me so I could’ve been there—”

“He wouldn’t have been cooperative if he saw you there.”

“You know, I do know a thing or two about going incognito.” he smiled shrewdly. She kissed him. “Is that why you were twisting so much on the ride here?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But you nearly punched him the last time—”

“Well, he nearly slapped you!” he said in a flash of temper. “I won’t stop you seeing him. It’s not my place to, but I just want you to tell me, okay?” he said, gentle fingers swiping at her hair that’s sticking to her collarbone, she was sweating so much. His face turned thoughtful. “He wouldn’t be in any fit state to throttle a woman, if he was black out drunk before nine thirty Friday night.”

Robin could hardly believe it. He wasn’t angry at her, and was even turning his thoughts over to Matthew and how he could not have done it despite everything. It surprised her that he was this easy going. She wondered idly if this is how he’s always like. This gentle and affectionate and caring and thoughtful and everything else that’s making her heart swell and burst. Was he like this with Lorelai? Elin? Charlotte? Is he only like this with her?

 

* * *

 

Cormoran had been angry, of course. The fact was that Matthew nearly slapped Robin the last time they were together and then she meets him without backup. He had been drunk then, too, and bold enough to try and hurt Robin with Cormoran in the other room. He wanted to punch the bastard’s lights out but she stood between them and deftly pushed Matthew out of the office as he hurled insults.

He did not like that they met alone, that she got in the cab with him and got in his flat. But he meant it when he told Robin it wasn’t his place to forbid her anything. They’ve only been dating for two weeks, and even with Charlotte or all the rest of them he had never been forbidding. All he asked was _trust_ , and maybe (a tall order for Charlotte in particular) faithfulness.

If he had been annoyed with Robin for not telling, the relief on her face when she realised he wasn’t angry at her ebbed it all away. Her legs straddling his lap and her kisses all over his face also helped.

He knew his easy going attitude wasn’t entirely because this is new.

He was falling hard, and fast.

Is this was Ilsa had warned about? Why she told him to be careful? Does he look like some love-struck puppy with his tongue out and his tail wagging?

It was awhile before Robin extricated herself off of Cormoran, and he felt a slight pang of disappointment that it didn’t lead to sex. It was broad daylight, of course, and if any of her neighbours saw, she would have to live with it. Still, a man could dream.

She put her arms around his neck as he walked through the door, pressing the length of her body flush against him as she kissed him deeply. His hand rested on her arse and he squeezed, mouthing at her jaw as she laughed.

“D’you wanna go upstairs?” he asked, groaning against her neck as he breathed her in.

“Hmmm.” she sighed. That was all the answer he needed.

He launched himself on her creaky and she laughed. He laughed too, pulling her to him as she knelt upright on the bed towards him. He pulled up her shirt, and mouthed at a clothed breast, and sucked at her collarbone as she laughed breathily. She was completely arousing, and he idly wondered if she’ll mind terribly if he gave her a hickey.

God, he felt renewed. Like he was ten years younger, like he was fit again, and muscled, like he was whole. His baser self found new appreciation for older men who sought the love of younger women. No one has felt like this, not since…

She tugged at his belt, and the sound of his zip felt as though amplified. He peeled off her leggings and she pulled it off herself, losing no time as she sank down and moaned in his ear. He watched their reflection on her mirror, watched as her back muscles flexed and clenched; as her hand held onto the metal rail and the bed shook and moved and creaked in a deafening crescendo that felt like the whole of London could hear.

_Jesus fuck!_

 

* * *

 

She was still sat upright on him, catching her breath awhile. They were not yet spent. She pulled at his hair as she nuzzled at his neck, raking her fingers in his hair, feeling his mouth kiss the bare skin he could reach.

“Lie back,” he panted in that deep growly Cornish accent of his. “Lie on the bed.”

She bent her body slowly, carefully, elbows first, resting her injured head carefully on her mattress. He pushed into her and she pulled at his shirt, wanting to feel him on her. “Closer,” she said breathily. “Closer.”

_What a sight they were._

He was large on top of her, heavy, her fingers twirling at his curly hair. _He can’t be comfortable,_ she thought, his leg and prosthesis dangling over the edge. There wasn’t much space in her creaky bed. It was a double. She didn’t think, didn’t hope she’d be sharing it so much and so soon.

She felt his hot, steady breath on her skin, the sunlight streaming to his bare arse. She raked her fingers over one of his butt cheeks and she giggled as he shifted at the sensation, felt him grind against her as he moved. The bed creaked again. She didn’t think it was so creaky before him.

 _The whole of London must know we’re shagging_ , Robin thought, _the noise the damn bed’s making._

(But she found that she didn’t mind, and in fact felt a little sorry for people who aren’t having mind-blowing sex right now.)

She had been afraid before that first night; that she would recoil at his touch, that she would panic at his looming, unfamiliar breadth over her. She was afraid that her body would betray her, and him, and reveal to them both that she was broken still, damaged, irreparable.

But as she cradled him in her limbs, as she felt him surrounding her, outside of her, inside of her that first time and every time since—in ecstasy and even last night—she knew that she had in fact healed, that her revulsion with physical intimacy and sexual exploration wasn’t born out of fear or trauma, but unhappiness.

She had been so profoundly unhappy for so long.

Now, with him, she is euphoric. Renewed. Scared, too, to feel like this; to feel this much this soon. But it was the same fear that got her out of the house before she was ready, the exhilaration that she was about to change her life, about to begin again.

It’s only been two weeks, but that didn’t feel accurate. It feels new, but also somehow that it has always existed. Her past—her long painful past—felt like a moment, like a day compared to this blissful eternity they’re inhabiting laying here like this on her tiny, creaky bed.

As he ground against her again, as she felt the bed rock and the frame creak in promise of pleasure and intimacy she never thought she’d have or enjoy again, she ached to say it: those three words she knew she’s felt for this man before she was even ready—but not yet _, not yet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I planned for them to have a bigger fight but they just ended up shagging ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯.
> 
> Should I just embrace smut already lmao (this question is rhetorical, I don't know how to write that!).
> 
> I don't even know who these two are at this point lololol. Holliday's smiley bubbly self is too seared in my brain and I think at this point Cormoran is just Tom Burke wish fulfilment. JK. I haven't completely lost the plot... I think.
> 
> Thanks for the comments on the last chapter, friends! <3


	11. "Which side are you on?"

 

 

 

Cormoran was exhausted.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s had this much sex. He loved it, of course, would quite like to do it a few more times before the workweek starts up again, but he felt sore. Like he just woke up after a long hard day of military training, or a rough boxing match. He would have been perfectly content with sleeping his Sunday afternoon away, but Robin had sprung up, went to the bathroom, and emerged after ten minutes in clean underwear looking fresh and energetic.

He hoped she wasn’t about to ask him to go out. He was far too comfortable, and felt uncharacteristically lazy. He was relieved when she picked up one of his shirts on the floor, put it on and got back in bed and pulled out her laptop seemingly out of nowhere.

He put a hand on her knee. “What are you looking at?” he asked after watching Robin look intently on her screen.

“The Elroy case,” she said. “I don’t think they’d hide the vase in the floorboard. Far too risky, if the wood isn’t new.”

The Elroy case concerned a large wealthy family fighting over a missing Jade vase of significant value. They were hired by one of the matriarch’s grandchildren, who feared an uncle had hidden or stolen it. It was currently their favorite case, being that it was the only one that didn’t involve tailing adulterous partners—yet. It was a puzzle, with a host of characters that Cormoran thought were lifted out of an Agatha Christie novel.

“Maybe the butler did it.” he joked, closing his eyes, intending to nap. Apart from feeling immensely comfortable in the cool room with sunlight streaming through the window, Robin just within his reach, he was also under slept.

“Hm?” he said, jerking awake. He wasn’t sure if he fell asleep for a second on an hour.

“Sorry, didn’t realise you fell asleep.” said Robin’s voice, as he felt her hand on his head, fingers pleasantly raking itself on his scalp. He heard the faint pop of her shutting her laptop close. “D’you want to come to dinner?”

“I can do dinner.” he said sleepily, eyes still closed, feeling Robin shift under his hand, lying down next to him. He felt her burrow herself next to him, planting the lightest of kisses on his upper lip. “I meant on Tuesday,” she said softly. “with my family.”

Cormoran opened an eye, awake now.

Her face was very close to his, he could only focus on the bridge of her nose. There was a light dusting of freckles there that he found unbearably adorable from the first time he saw her without make-up (the first time she called off her engagement). He felt a sudden incredible sensation of happiness that he’s seeing them from so close up.

“You don’t have to.” said Robin, pulling her face away to better look at his.

He didn’t subscribe to arbitrary timelines of when partners ought to be introduced to friends and family. Lorelai only ever met Nick and Ilsa, and that had been an accident. Charlotte wielded him like a weapon to shock and test her family very early in the relationship. Nina Lascelles, a brief fling, had met Lucy and his friends on the first date.

It wasn’t the newness of this relationship that made him hesitant. It wasn’t even their agreement (that they’ve both failed to keep) of _not telling_ that was causing him to think twice. He’s never seen any of them since the day she married Matthew, and he knew for a fact that if they had cooled their dislike of him since then, the Chiswell case and now, Robin’s bandaged head, would renew their animosity. He also didn’t know how much they liked the man she was now divorcing. Either way, they can only view him as someone who swooped right in when Robin was at her most vulnerable.

But she had such a hopeful look on her face, he would’ve agreed if her request had been to chop off his other leg. “Of course I’ll go, if you want me there.”

She smiled. He grinned.

 

* * *

 

As Cormoran dozed, open-mouthed and drooling against her pillow, his hand on her side, Robin contemplated on the last time she had felt this content and satisfied. She realised it had been the night after Matthew proposed to her.

She had been so happy, all other thought was pushed out of her brain. She willingly forgot that her and Matthew’s move to London had been a stressful adjustment to them both, willingly forgot that they had rocky months before that, willingly forgot that she had been growing disinterested and bored. It wasn’t this job that ended them, she finally realised. They were always going to end.

But she didn’t hate him. Some part of her, in fact, felt _relieved_ that he cheated. It saved her some time, absolved her from leaving out of mere unhappiness. As she lightly scratched at the thick mass of hair on Cormoran’s chest (Matthew’s had been smooth and hairless), she distantly wondered if Matthew was still with Sarah Shadlock. She had no sympathy for Tom Turvey, who was always obtuse and occasionally offensive. Matthew and Sarah were well suited for each other. Not physically—because Matthew is almost excessively handsome—but in every other regard. They’re both pompous social climbers who obsessed about money.

Her intrusive thoughts about them didn’t cause her pain. She felt a little like she had gotten the last laugh, almost. She was happy. She was thriving at the job she loved, thrilled with the man she’s with, and having the best sex of her life. (Seriously, it was fantastic.) They can have their high-paying careers and their nights hobnobbing with rich people and their mediocre sex and their diamond earrings. She was happy right here.

A wave of deja vu. The image of the woman. A pang of guilt and sudden misery. She pulled herself closer to Cormoran, feeling his reassuring bulk and warmth against her cheek. 

 

* * *

 

“Hey Bob!” said Richard Anstis as he opened the door to Cormoran. His old friend seemed cheerful, which wasn’t usual for him. He and Cormoran butted heads more often than not lately, and he was surprised that Richard even agreed for him to come over.

“How are the kids?” Cormoran inquired good-naturedly, sitting on the dining room table. There were pieces of loose legoes littered all over it.

“Good, good.” said Anstis, handing Cormoran a cold beer. “They’re at Helly’s mum’s for the week. Visiting.”

 _So that’s why he’s bloody chipper_ , Cormoran mused, _he’s alone_.

“What can I do for you, Bob?” he asked.

“The Malmaison case,” Cormoran said cutting to the chase. “Anything you have.”

“Got nothing from Wardle, eh?”

“Says Carver’s shut him out.”

“Yeah. He knows you two are friendly.”

“He wouldn’t cut you out as easily.” said Cormoran, matter of fact but also trying to flatter.

“No, he wouldn’t.” Anstis smiled. Anstis left the room a moment, leaving Cormoran to his beer while absently playing with the lego blocks. If Anstis was being this friendly, then Wardle hadn’t said anything about Robin and Cormoran. It was one of the reasons he forced himself off of Robin’s bed. He knew he needed to beat Wardle’s gossiping to the punch.

Anstis returned with his laptop and the case file. Cormoran felt a little guilty at how pissed his friend would be when he finds out he’s about to pass evidence to the suspect’s soon-to-be ex-wife’s current boyfriend. This might be how their friendship ends. Of course, he’s thought that before, but somehow the fact that Cormoran literally saved his life seems to win out in the end.

As Cormoran thought he ought to be a better friend to Richard Anstis in particular, he also couldn’t believe he was risking it to save Matthew Cunliffe’s arse.

Anstis unceremoniously cleared the table of its lego debris, and laid out photos on the table. “Got these from Ferguson at forensics.”

It was a photo of the woman who was attacked, this time without the tubing nor the bandages. Her face was still swollen, the other half a terrible sight of destroyed flesh. “Christ.” Cormoran muttered. Seeing her clearly on a large, high-definition photograph was even more distressing than the first time. _Robin must never see this_.

The other photo was clearly a computer creation of a nondescript though pretty woman Cormoran’s never seen before. “This her?” he asked.

Anstis shrugged. “It’s not an exact science, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

“Any hits?”

“I’ll have to check on that, but I doubt it. It’s a five-mile radius they’re combing, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“Anything on Cunliffe?”

Anstis looked at him. “Which side are you on?”

Cormoran shrugged. “Just want to find the right guy.”

“Your guy is squeaky clean, but his alibi is bad.” said Anstis, fiddling with his computer. “CCTV corroborated your Robin’s testimony, but she left him too early for when our guys think the attack happened. Could’ve sobered up and got a hold of her for all we knew.”

“You talked to his landlord? The taxi driver?” Cormoran inquired.

“Yep. All said he seemed too drunk to hold his head up, much less haul himself to the hotel all the way from Knightsbridge. Without an accurate timeline for her, she could’ve been attacked anywhere from midnight to four thirty in the morning. Plenty of time for him.”

“If CCTV corroborated Robin’s whereabouts, why couldn’t you check if he was spotted out later that night?”

“The ones covering his flat’s entrance and exit points were all busted. We got confirmation of _her_ testimony from her cabbie and the ones on Denmark Street clearly showing she went back to the office when she said she did. No one took your statement?”

“No.”

“Then even Carver was satisfied Robin was telling the truth.”

He must’ve looked a certain way because Anstis next said, “Relax. No one thinks your partner has anything to do with it. Carver’s a dickhead about her after the Brockbank case, but everyone else I’ve spoken to seems to think she’s alright.”

That wasn’t what Cormoran was concerned with. He knew perfectly well Robin had nothing to do with it as Cormoran herself was her alibi for the rest of the night. This was an unfortunate case, Cormoran mused. Everything tied neatly to Matthew, and all because his number was on the woman’s person. He imagined handsome and pompous Matthew Cunliffe, chatting up an anonymous woman one night, only to end up in this situation.

The woman at the photo was not beautiful enough, Cormoran thought. If he carelessly threw away Robin Ellacott, that woman was not a beautiful enough replacement.

“What about his phone records?”

“They’re working on an arrest warrant first before subpoenaing his phone. But Robin said they talked six times before meeting, and then he rang her twice around 2 AM but she didn’t answer.”

A flash of her moonlight-bathed body arching as his hands gripped at her hips.

“I was told she rowed with a woman that night.”

“Oh yeah.” said Anstis, pulling up a video on his laptop. Cormoran watched as Matthew dragged a dark-haired woman by the elbow outside of The Viaduct Tavern. Her face was too him, gesticulating and squirming away from his hold. Even from a distance, and even in the fuzzy definition of the video, Cormoran could tell he looked livid. Has he ever held Robin like this? Treated her like this? Why was he busting his ass on a Sunday, tearing himself away from the best thing that’s happened to him, to exonerate Matthew fuckin Cunliffe from certain doom?

Matthew dragged the woman off camera, but into an alley Cormoran knew would be there. Random people walked in and out of the shot for awhile before Matthew emerged again, alone, walking away from the bar. The woman followed soon after, from the way her body was moving, she was yelling after him.

“No clear shot of her, and she was wearing a different dress than the woman who was attacked. Of course, clothes can easily be changed, but they’re confident this is a different person.”

“Any witnesses inside the bar?”

“They’re working on it, but so far if he didn’t do anything noteworthy other than snipe at a female, he likely wouldn’t be memorable.”

Cormoran objective to this dismissiveness. He dragged a woman out by the elbow through a crowded bar, someone would have noticed.

“Anything else significant about the woman attacked? Anything to help figuring out her identity?”

Anstis shook his head. “She’s pregnant, though.”


	12. "Can I buy you a drink?"

 

 

 

The Viaduct Tavern was an opulent, historic pub along Newgate St. It’s the sort of place Matthew would like, Robin mused as she pulled open the pub doors. It was ornate, the last of authentic Victorian pubs, with paintings and gas lamps and engraved sconces that harken back to the 19th century.

It wasn’t so full that Sunday afternoon, filled with bearded tourists in jean jackets or hoodies. The clientele didn’t look all that different from a Starbucks.

She took a seat at the bar, looking around at the place. Next to her were two American tourists, excitedly talking about the history of the pub. It was a gin palace, ensconced between two prisons, witness to public lynchings from a set of gallows that was now a fountain outside.

“No, dude, there’s totally a poltergeist here!” said one of them enthusiastically. “I read it’s a murdered hooker or something.”

“Ghosts aren’t real, you dumbass.” said his companion.

Robin was entertained by the conversation, not knowing anything about the pub. She imagined Matthew in a handsome suit, turning on the charm for single women at the bar. Did he do it while they were married? During those nights he said he _had_ to get a drink with the boys? Would he twist his ring off his finger to chat women up while berating her for removing hers for work?

She felt like a pint.

“Can I buy you a drink?” asked the American in a hoodie who didn’t believe in ghosts.

Robin smiled good-naturedly. “That’s alright.” she declined.

“Oops. Sorry to disturb, miss.” he said with a dorky tip of his invisible hat. It made Robin laugh. She had to stifle another one as his ghost-believing companion teased him for “falling flat on his face”.

She went all the way to this pub to have a look around. She didn’t have anything to go on, other than the fact that Cormoran went to Anstis, and she wanted to also do something to help Matthew get himself out of trouble. She tried not to think about how she _didn’t_ tell Cormoran where she was, and how badly she wanted to go to St. Bart’s that was just a block away.

“Hi,” said a male voice. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“No, thanks.” said Robin, barely looking at the man who had approached her. She already had a drink in hand.

A smirk.

She stilled, breathing deeply to get ahead of the panic. She loathed not being able to grab a pint at a bar in peace.

“And here I thought you were nice.” said the man.

Robin realised his voice was familiar. She turned to him again. “Oh!” said Robin with dawning comprehension. And then, “Oh my god!”

The man chuckled.

It was Tom Turvey.

She hadn’t seen him in maybe a month or two but he looked different. She knew he’s been trying to lose weight in the last year she’s known him, but seemed to have started going to the gym since they last met. His usually clean-cut face was growing a beard that suited him, he had coloured his sandy, rather ginger hair, and he got hair plugs. Or a toupe. He didn’t look bald or balding anymore, and the effect was staggering.

“What happened to you?” he asked, hand about to touch her bandage when she recoiled. Tom just smiled and sipped his pint. “What brings you here? Or do you now live around the area?”

“Do _you_ live around here?” she wondered.

He shrugged. “The lads like this place a lot,” he said gesturing to a clump of Matthew-like men Robin recognised were his workmates. He wasn’t with them, of course. He might still be at New Scotland Yard, the Met sweating a confession out of him. _Poor Matt…_ “We like the vibe.”

Robin tried not to roll her eyes. This seemed like the sort of place young arseholes in suits would frequent.

“Matt’s idea, actually.” said Tom. “Loves this place. I think he’s here every week or something.”

“So, how’s Sarah?” she asked, not really knowing what else to say to him. He beamed. “Great, we’re great!” she could hear his brag.

“She isn’t here?” Robin asked, adding to herself the inward groan of _is she?_

“No, no.” said Tom. “Just left for the States. Work.”

“Ah.” An awkward silence. Her phone rang, it was Cormoran. Robin excused herself and walked away from Tom, nearer to the American tourists talking about the hole in the painting by their table.

“Hiya!” said Robin cheerfully. Cormoran told her he needed to run some errands the afternoon, clearly thinking she was still at her flat. He told her to text him where she wanted to go for dinner and he’ll meet her.

Her polite nature made her return to Tom.

She supposed running into Matthew’s work buddies was serendipitous. She needed more information about Matthew frequenting this particular pub, and here was Tom Turvey willing to gossip.

“Is he seeing anyone?” she asked, taking it for granted if he knows about her ex and his fiance.

Tom smirked again. She knew he was relishing telling him this news. Robin didn’t care. Matthew can marry, date, or sleep with half of London for all she fucking cared. “A few.” he said, purposely coy. “None as fit as you, though.”

Christ how she hated this guy.

“Would you happen to know who they are? Their names?”

Tom laughed. “Are you gonna ambush them? Do that woman thing where you pull them by the hair and drag them to the street?”

Robin glared at him.

“Okay, okay.” said Tom, laughing. This newfound conventional attractiveness has only made him worse. “I don’t know any of the others, they didn’t seem that serious.” he started. “But he brought a woman named Monica at the shareholder’s banquet. Says they met here.”

“Do you know her last name?” she asked.

Tom sniggered. “Nope. She’s got nothing on you, though.” he said. “She’s got monstrous thighs.” And then, in her periphery she noticed his hand drifting, about to reach for some part of her. On instinct, she slapped his hand before it made contact.

“Hey! This dude bothering you?” said the American who asked if she wanted a pint earlier.

Tom held both hands up as he backed away. “See ya, Rob.” he said as his eyes drifted down her body.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran was already on his errand when he realised Robin must be at The Viaduct Tavern. He had overheard from the pub noises the story of a gunshot to a painting, remembering it to be one of the historic pub’s lores.

She must really care for Matthew if she’s carelessly putting herself in the path of a vicious assailant to solve his case. He should not have been surprised. Whether it was his soon-to-be ex-husband that’s at the other side of this case, or just the faceless woman they still didn’t recognise, this was a very Robin thing to do.

He abandoned what he was about to do and got back in his car. Her next stop would be St. Bart’s. He had to stop her.

 

* * *

 

The two American tourists were a nice pair, Robin thought. They moved to join her back at the bar, enthusiastically telling her the story of how one of the Victorian paintings came to have a bullet hole on it.

Sean, the one who asked to buy her a drink and gallantly attempted to chase Tom Turvey away was telling her how he was on his honeymoon, sans his supposed wife who called off the wedding the night before it was to take place.

“I almost called off my wedding,” she said, feeling up for sharing confidences with the friendly stranger. “Trust me, that’s the better alternative.”

He sniggered in his pint. “To what?!”

“To being unhappily married.” she sighed.

“Is that your husband there?” Sean asked. “Big guy glaring at us like he’s about to murder me?”

Robin looked out the large exposed window. It was Cormoran and he _definitely_ looked mad.

Cormoran walked inside and up to them, glaring at Sean until he got the hint. “Nice meeting you, Rob!” he said and walked away.

Cormoran took the seat Sean vacated. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know.” said Robin truthfully.

“He threw acid at a woman’s face.” said Cormoran. She could feel his agitation simmering below the surface.

“I know.” Robin slumped, head falling against his shoulder. She felt him sigh. She sat up straight again. “But I need to help him, Cormoran. I _need_ to.”

“I know,” he said, arm around her shoulders to pull her back to him. He kissed the top of her head. “But going back to the possible scene of the crime alone isn’t a good idea.” She felt his mouth moving against her head as he said it.

She nodded, sitting back again, sighing into her pint.

“Robin, you can’t do these things.” he said seriously, breathing hard, disappointed at her. “If something happened to you—”

She looked at his face, his eyes were somewhere else. She could read it on his expression, the thing she also felt but knew it was too soon to say.

She held his hand, he gripped back.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me.” she said, trying to give back some of the safety and comfort and reassurance he gives her. It was a lie of course, a bad joke. A lot of things seem to happen to her. What was more accurate, more truthful, was to say “I’m going to be okay.”

Because she will be. Whatever it is, she bounces back. Her own mind, own body can betray her but this is something she knew inside her gut: she’s a fighter.

 

* * *

 

Upon Cormoran’s insistence, they found a different place for dinner— somewhere far from where the attack had transpired. He felt like a pint at the Tottenham since they were in the area, but Robin insisted they eat.

They settled on one of their favorite curry houses just a few blocks away from the office. It was practically empty that Sunday night save for a pair of young Indian couples laughing boisterously on a table by the door.

They settled at the far corner near the loos and the kitchen.

“This was our first date,” Robin smiled, handing the waiter her menu. Cormoran knew it, of course. It was only a week and a half ago. He was mildly embarrassed to remember it, because this wasn’t a smart place at all, and he had kissed her forgetting they had just had curry. “Bugger of a first date, cheap curry.” he joked.

Robin laughed. “I wasn’t expecting steak and champagne.”

She ran her fingers along the back of his hand, her other hand under her chin. “I like this shirt,” she said, hand outstretching to fix his collar. “Navy blue suits you.”

Cormoran smiled. He liked these little micro-gestures of hers. He liked to imagine they were her way of saying what he hoped she was feeling for him.

“How’d it go with Anstis?” she asked.

“Wardle hasn’t gotten to him yet,” Cormoran replied. “He wouldn’t have been that friendly and helpful if he had been told about us.”

“We’re very bad at this, aren’t we?” Robin sighed. “The not telling?”

Cormoran grinned. “Yeah, we are.”

“We should just get t-shirts or something.”

“You can wear one of those I’m with idiot t-shirts.” Cormoran suggested. She smiled.

Cormoran told her everything Anstis had told her. He showed her the CCTV video, and the facial rendering of the woman.

“That doesn’t look like a real person,” said Robin, looking at it. “It looks like a CGI cartoon.”

“You don’t recognise it? Not even vaguely?”

“No. But Tom Turvey said Matt’s been seeing this woman called Monica. I’ve never known him to know a Monica.”

“Tom Turvey?”

“You know, Sarah Shadlock’s fiance. You met him at the housewarming.”

“No, I remember. When did you meet Tom Turvey?” Cormoran asked.

“He was at the pub. Tried to hit on me.”

Cormoran knotted his eyebrows, thinking. “Does he know Matthew is sleeping with Sarah?”

Robin shrugged and then, “You don’t think he did this!”

“Good motive as any, trying to get back at the arsehole screwing his fiance.”

“But he’s an idiot!” Robin exclaimed, and then looked like she wanted to take it back. “I mean, he’s very thick. Told me his relationship was going well.”

Cormoran was not convinced. “He might want you to think that, but he frequents the Viaduct Tavern and he would know which women Matthew was involved with. Means, opportunity, _and_ motive.”

Robin looked thoughtful. “But if he did it, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to hang back around the area where he did it. That’s an entirely different psychological profile, isn’t it? The arrogant mastermind.” said Robin. “If he did do it, I think he’d hide out or run off. It fits better into how I know him.”

Cormoran conceded it made sense, and then remembered something else. “Anstis said the woman—the attacked woman, she’s pregnant.”

“What?!” said Robin, appalled. “That’s horrible!”

“Yeah.” said Cormoran, though that didn’t stop him from digging into his curry. Robin hadn’t touched her food. He tried not to stare.

“Oh my god, that poor woman…” she said, her voice trailing off.

Cormoran was broaching a sensitive subject, he thought. The possibility of Robin’s husband (for he is still her husband) fathering a child. He wished Anstis had a more illuminating answer when he asked him, but figured Robin might now more, seeing as she’s a woman.

“I was wondering if they could tell whose it is, even that early on.”

“How far along is she?” Robin asked, matter of factly. Cormoran thought if her casual interest was put on, she was an excellent actress. It surprised him a little that she didn’t seem too bothered by it.

“Five, six weeks.” Cormoran shrugged, repeating Anstis’ answer.

“Yeah they can test for that, but they wouldn’t without consent, would they?”

“No.” Cormoran confirmed.

“It’s a very dangerous test, that early on in the pregnancy. It could induce a miscarriage.” said Robin, and then added, “Can I see the photo again, the reconstruction photo?”

Cormoran took it out.

Robin looked at it intently. “I wish we had a copy of what she actually looked like.”

“You’re not looking at that again.” said Cormoran immediately. Robin stared at him. “You wont _let_ me see it?”

“No.” he said definitively, catching her drift. He shoved a mouthful of curry in his mouth. She didn’t press him. He could tell she didn’t want to see it any more than he wanted her to see it. “What are you looking for?”

“Just identifying marks.” said Robin, and then she gasped.

“What is it?”

She flipped the photo to face him and pointed at a small circular mark on the crook of her neck, just partly visible on the front-facing photograph. She looked excited. “That’s a cigarette mark!” she exclaimed.

She was right, but he didn’t know the significance of this and why she looked so thrilled to find it.

“Is it on the actual photo?” she asked. Cormoran pulled out his phone and zoomed in on the version of it he stored there, not wanting to pull out the hard copy in his files. “Yeah.”

“ _Cormoran_ ,” said Robin as though on the brink of a stunning breakthrough. “Matthew didn’t smoke!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to rosenoble9, who is convinced Tom did it. She might be right.


	13. "You're not jealous, are you?"

 

 

 

Robin felt a little deflated that Cormoran didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm for the cigarette mark she found on the woman’s neck. It was horrific of course, but if the assailant did it to her, the Met ought to look for someone who smoked.

“She could’ve been a smoker,” said Cormoran. “It could have been _her_ cigarette.”

“You just said she’s pregnant!”

“Is it likely that she didn’t know?” Cormoran wondered.

“It’s possible… but she’d have to be really unorganised about her own body, I think.” said Robin truthfully. She had a friend back in Masham who didn’t know she was pregnant until six weeks in. Her periods have always been irregular, and she thought it was just more of the same. That friend had been fifteen at the time, of course. Adults ought to know their bodies better. “No, I think we should treat the pregnancy as something she knew.”

“Yeah, I agree.” said Cormoran. “So, we need to find Monica.”

“And the woman in the CCTV video.” Robin added.

“Could be the same person.”

“Tom suggested Matt’s been seeing multiple people.” said Robin. Cormoran’s fingers were absent-mindedly playing with hers on the table. 

“You okay about that?” 

Robin smiled at him and shrugged. “I don’t care about Matt. I mean, I care that he doesn’t go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, but I don’t care if he marries Sarah Shadlock, or this other woman, or all the other women. He’s not my problem anymore.”

He looked thoughtful.

“You’re not jealous, are you?” she asked though smiling. She knew he wasn’t.

He smiled at her, took her hand, and kissed her open palm. “No.”

“Good.” said Robin, caressing his cheek. “Should we tell the police about Monica?”

“They have their own means to get information.” said Cormoran. Robin knew it was mostly animosity with Carver made him say that. They ordinarily want to be helpful with the police. “No, I think we need to work on this ourselves, Robin. They’re running a different angle than us.”

 

* * *

 

Cormoran felt a little self-conscious inviting Robin up to his tiny attic flat. He knew he had no reason to be, Robin’s been there multiple times. But she’s never been there as his girlfriend.

He felt as though a showman revealing a disappointing showcase behind a curtain. _Ta da! This is your life with me!_

He gently held the tips of her fingers as they walked into the bedroom. Robin had also been there a few times, just to poke her head in and wake him up.

She immediately plopped herself on the bed as Cormoran rummaged around to pack even more stuff. They could stay there of course, but Robin had nothing and women needed more stuff to get ready for the working day.

Would it be too soon if they get cabinets at each other’s places? _Yes, idiot. Calm down!_

Cormoran’s bed, unlike Robin’s, was king sized. It was too big for the tiny bedroom, and resting against one wall to fit a single nightstand. He bought it to accommodate lady companions as well has his own bulk, but he liked that only Robin has been on his bed.

She jumped a little on it. “It doesn’t creak!”

“That’s because it’s for adults.” Cormoran quipped.

“A lot of other adults have been on this bed, have they?”

Cormoran gave her a look. She laughed. He plopped next to her. “No, actually.” he said earnestly. “Just you.”

She beamed at this. He leaned over to kiss her, cupping the back of her neck, laying her gently down on the bed. They made out for awhile, slow, unhurried, her fingers gently scraping at his scruff, his own firmly cupping her neck. He could feel her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek.

“Are you falling asleep?” he asked softly, face still close to her.

“No,” she said sleepily, mouth red and slack. He smiled at her cherubic face like this. He kissed her nose and she wiggled it. It made him chuckle. She smiled, eyes still closed. “Can I stay?”

He was just staring at her face in his hand, still in utter disbelief she is his reality.

“Of course you can stay.”

“Hm,” she sighed.

He pushed himself off her and she whined a little at the loss of him. He just looked at her as he unbuttoned his shirt and removed his trousers. By the time he sat on the bed to unbuckle his prosthesis, she was asleep.

He cradled her as he gently pulled her up on the pillows. She squirmed to get comfortable, hand half-heartedly to her trouser button. It amazed him how quickly she can fall asleep, even still fully clothed without all the rituals other women do before they’re ready for anything.

He helped her out of her jeans and t-shirt, and dressed her in one of his own. It was far too drafty in his bedroom for her to stay in her underthings.

He’s done this for other women, but often it was Charlotte, and often she was in drunken or drugged up hysterics where he would wrangle limbs and assuage erratic emotions and hold back hair as she puked. With Robin, it was different. With Robin, it was unlike anything he’s ever had before.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran’s back was too her when she woke up in his dark bedroom. His bed was very comfortable, like she woke up in a hotel suite. It amused her that his bedclothes were black. Very bachelor pad.

The room wasn’t very big, the bed consumed most of it. But it was cool and tidy and smelled faintly of his cologne that he wears just the exact amount of. She’s come to find that to be rare in a man, with all of them bathing in it.

She liked being in his shirt, she loved being in his bed, loved even the expanse of his back. She ran a palm over his back and felt him move. She leaned behind him, peeking at his face from his shoulder. It made her laugh a little to see his open mouth drooling into his pillow. She kissed his shoulder.

“I love you, you know.” she whispered at him and into the darkness. She stared at his face. No movement. She giggled quietly at her boldness.

 

* * *

 

He woke up to the sound of sizzling meat.

The delicious smell of bacon filled up his bedroom. He felt his stomach rumble.

He rubbed a palm roughly over his eye. It was only 6 am but Robin was already up and he deduced, making breakfast.

He put on his prosthesis and walked out of his room to join her.

She was over his tiny stove, backside wiggling to the beat of some fast song she was playing on her phone. He grinned as he watched her, admiring how she could move like a dancer. He idly wondered if she ever took up dance lessons. She was suddenly a world of infinite possibilities, and he wanted to know them all.

He stalked behind her, hands suddenly gripping her hip, intending to surprise. _Shit_. He’d completely forgotten! But she turned around swiftly to face him, only pleasantly surprised, only happy to see him. She tiptoed to kiss him and he wrapped his large arms around the small of her back, burying his face in her neck. Feeling her hips still jerking to the song.

She laughed when he didn’t let go. She was still holding a spatula aloft.

God, how he loved her.

“Babe, the eggs will burn.” she said.

He liked that she called him babe.

He extricated himself and let her keep cooking, let her wiggle her hips to what even he recognized was Gangnam Style.

He liked how she looked in her shirt, how her arse peeked when she wiggled or stretched. For the first time since opening the agency, he wished he was the sort of man to just blow off work. Would it be so bad if they played a little hooky? The greedy sods who hired them to tail their obscenely younger wives would still be cheated on tomorrow.

Robin wouldn’t stand for it, of course. That’s part of why he loved her, because their compatibility extended even to that. They were very good business partners, and it thrilled him to realise now that they were very good as other sorts of partners as well.

Finally done with the eggs, she laid it down on the tiny dining table. His place was so cramped, she didn’t have to move and only needed to outstretch her arms. She grabbed for a bacon as she bobbed her head to face him, making him laugh.

“Thanks for cooking breakfast.” he said, pulling her to him, hands on her behind. She bit into the bacon. “Don’t get used to it.” she joked. He kissed her. She tasted like bacon. She laughed into his mouth as he ran his hand over her arse, fingers under her knickers. Her laughter turned to gasps as he ground her against him, as he sucked at her neck, bit at her collar bone.

“Cormoran,” she breathed, eyes closed. She pulled away from him.

“Wh—”

Before he could wonder, before he coud think, she had turned around, had leaned slightly over the kitchen counter and was wiggling out of her underwear.

“Wha—” was all he could say as he took the half step to be right behind her, as he felt her grope for him, felt her hand clutch at his arse to get close, _get inside_.

“Rob—” he panted, dazed. “Are you—”

But her hands were around him, leading him in. He gripped her hip and pulled her flush against him. “ _Fuck_.”

He didn’t last. He couldn’t. And with knees like jelly, he caught her as she jumped up to him. He led them blindly back to the bedroom, and they fell together a little roughly on the bed. “Your hea—” breathed.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” she panted, urgent, hips thrusting for friction. He kissed her on the mouth, on the neck, lifted his shirt to mouth at her breast, her flat stomach trailing down, _down_.

He was breathing hard as he pulled himself up next to her. She waited until his head hit the pillow before straddling him again, still panting from her own orgasm, already kissing him deeply, open-mouthed, hand between them, holding him, exciting him, arousing him.

It didn’t take long.

She _sank_ , rocking as she kissed him, body against his, hands on his shoulders. He couldn’t stand it. He wrapped his arms around her and _flipped_. She groaned at the difference, fingers digging into his butt cheek, urging him to go faster. “ _Fuck! Holy fuck!_ ” he yelled as his hips stuttered and he collapsed.

He moved to get off her but she embraced him like that. “No,” she said. He felt her kiss his chest, just above his heart. “Don’t. Not yet.”

 

* * *

 

Robin winced as Cormoran pried himself off of her, laying down next to her and pulling her to him.

“That was—” he started, still breathless.

She felt a little shy about it now, burrowing her face against his chest.

 

* * *

 

He knew he wasn’t supposed to think it, but he thought it: _Matthew’s an idiot_.

He perfectly knew it takes two to have great sex, but he thought it all the same.

 _Matthew’s an effin’ idiot_.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, fuck!”

Robin opened her eyes.

Cormoran sprung up, sitting on the bed, back to her. She saw him grab for his phone and finally noticed the time. It was 10:30. They overslept.

Oops.

Cormoran limped out of the bedroom, pressing his phone to his ear. Robin could feel her head throbbing, and how sore she was in other places. It hadn’t been a very comfortable nap. She felt a little hung over.

She showered quickly, hearing Cormoran’s muffled voice as he made calls. She felt bad. He was supposed to tail a client’s young wife before she left for Costa Rica that morning. She also told their accountant she’d have the receipts done and sent by 10 am. Barclay and Hutchins— “Shit!”

“You okay?” he called from the other side of the bathroom door.

Robin turned off the shower and poked her head out. Cormoran was in the dining room, absently chewing bacon which have now undoubtedly cooled.

“Barclay and Hutchins!”

“Yeah.” Cormoran grunted. “Hutchins went to the Elroy estate and Barclay texted needing to take the morning off anyway. Kid broke out with something, took her to hospital.”

“Is she okay?” Robin asked, worried, feeling even guiltier now. They had Monday morning meetings with their subcontractors that didn’t happen because both business partners had overslept.

“Chicken pox. He’ll be by the office after lunch.”

“And Carlson?”

“Gave me an earful,” he sighed. “But I gave him a bunch of those stuff from Facebook he didn’t even ask for, so he can’t be too mad.”

Robin leaned her head against the door, embarrassed and guilty. “Ow!” she exclaimed, the edge of the doorway hit her stitches.

Cormoran was quick on his feet, limping to her, checking her bandage. “Is it bleeding?” she asked, worried she might have to take the morning off to get it redone now. What came over her?

“No, I don’t think so.” said Cormoran, affectionately pinching her cheek. He must’ve noticed her pouting. “Hey,” he said gently. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We wasted an entire morning.” she said, looking up at him, the cold draft from outside felt weird against her nakedness.

“Didn’t feel wasted.” he grinned to himself.

She shook her head. “Cormoran!”

“I can join you, we can shower at half the time.”

She rolled her eyes and closed the door to his laughing face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew can y’all tell me if this is finally e territory because i literally cannot tell on this website. lol. like, M is usually super tame but then E is like the kind of filth not even satan himself can dream of lmao


	14. "What have you found out?"

 

 

 

Cormoran’s stump didn’t feel right. It was rubbing painfully against his prosthesis. He didn’t put it on correctly that morning, having just wanted it on to join Robin for breakfast. The morning’s activities didn’t help, nor did accidentally sleeping on it. The skin felt like it would blister.

“Fuck.” he cursed, gripping the stair railing as he and Robin went down to the office.

Robin, who was ahead of him, stopped.

“I’m fine.” he grumbled, short of shooing her to go on ahead. “I’ll look at it inside. You go ahead.”

Robin rushed up and back inside the flat, getting the stick she had bought him a year ago. “Here. Use this.”

It was helpful, and he was relieved he didn’t have to put his weight on the prosthesis as he kept walking back down. “Thanks.”

She waited for him at the landing. He wished she wouldn’t.

“What do you think happened?” she asked, as she opened the office door for him.

He plopped on the farty couch before he spoke. “Must not have put it on right."

He massaged the muscles behind what’s left of his leg, watching as Robin did what she did to open up the office: boot up her ancient computer, water the plants, put on the kettle. He thought of it as her waking up the place. It was soothing just to watch her move as though on autopilot, as though she’ll do it always forever.

Would she be happy in this ramshackle little office? When she’s less like how she is now and more like a version of Linda Ellacott? Cormoran could see himself grey and wrinkled, even more curmudgeonly accepting and dismissing men in suits looking for someone to tail the cheating women in their lives. Is he under ambitious, like what his brother in law had said?

It struck him that he was envisioning his future. It’s not that he never had before, but he always thought about himself for the most part. He only ever thought about a future with Charlotte, and even then it was a togetherness that was more physical than anything else. Charlotte had money he’ll never have, had whims she never compromised on. He knew marrying her would be to simply bind himself to a woman who is fundamentally untethered, living perhaps in her smart apartment while wondering what she did all day.

With Robin, he felt _entwined_.

She put tea down in front of him and settled on her desk, adopting a distant air of professionalism where her focus was on emails than even him.

The phone rang.

“Strike & Ellacott Investigations.” she said, smiling at him as she said it. “He’s out at the moment, may I know to what this is regarding?”

He got up off the couch and headed to the inner office. The future seemed unfathomably far and ineffable, but his present wasn’t bad at all.

 

* * *

 

Robin walked back up the office, having bought herself and Cormoran sandwiches from across the street. His leg was still bothering him and he hadn’t gotten up and out of the inner office except to pee.

The decal on the door bearing her name still gave her a thrill. She felt proud and accomplished. Twenty-seven ( _Er, twenty-eight now, I guess_ ) and already a named partner at one of the top detective agencies in London. It amazed her how much her life changed in the last couple of years. For the longest time she felt that what happened to her at university derailed her entire life, but now it’s like she moved leaps and bounds to catch up. She might’ve even surpassed her peers, she thought idly. None of them are turning twenty-eight and about to have one marriage under their belt.

She didn’t always feel this casual about being a twenty-eight year-old divorcee. In the moments where she truly hated Matthew, it was precisely for that reason. But today she didn’t care, and found that it was a better alternative than to stay married for a few more years just to divorce at a more appropriate age. They were always going to end, and she wasn’t about to waste any more time than she had to.

She was glad to find Cormoran, back to the door, half-sitting on her desk, speaking to someone on the landline.

She walked up to him, just to kiss him hello. He turned in time to catch it, his eyes not at her but past and right behind.

Robin turned around, a little worried at what she’ll find. It was both Sam and Andy, staring at them, mouth agape, sandwiches mid-bite.

 _Damn._ They were really inordinately bad at this. Maybe Cormoran should wear the ‘I’m with stupid’ t-shirt.

She shook her head, bowing, embarrassed.

“You’re terrible at this.” said Cormoran to her, kissing the top of her head before turning back to his phone call. Both their subcontractors were staring at her, stupid grins on their faces. She shook her head, heading for the inner office.

As she closed the door she heard Sam joke, “Is it new company policy to give you a little kiss now, Strike? Because if it is—”

“Fuck off!” Cormoran retorted, and she could hear the three of them erupt with laughter.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran marvelled at the wealth of information there was to find on Facebook. It’s been particularly invaluable for the adultery cases they’ve been handling, with so many of their younger marks not being careful enough or subtle enough when using the website. He’s been able to narrow down Kathleen Carlson’s potential lovers to three just by the affectionate way she would comment on the young and handsome men’s photos.

He wondered…

He searched for Matthew Cunliffe’s profile and was surprised to find it easily. He thought he would be blocked, like Robin had been pretty much since the night she walked out.

His profile photo was of him in jersey, fit and trim and two-legged as he held the ball and protectively—yet handsomely—kept it from being taken as he ran. The photo looked professionally taken, as though there was a pro sports journalist in one of his company games.

Cormoran found Monica immediately.

Okay, not immediately. He had to scroll through about a hundred comments from fawning women and vaguely envious men before Cormoran found her. Her comment was innocuous enough, just a simple “Go Matt! :)”, but she was the only Monica.

Right away Cormoran knew ‘Monica’ was neither the woman attacked, nor the woman who fought with Matthew outside The Viaduct Tavern. Both women were Caucasian. Monica, whose last name is Andrada, had Asian features. In her profile photo, her dark hair was in a pony tail, prettily poising a large professional-grade camera to a subject off-screen.

This profile photo had hundreds of likes, and even more comments. According to her profile, she just graduated from university and is working as a photographer. She was also twenty-three, but looked younger.

Initially thrilled to find her, Cormoran quickly got bored of going through her profile for signs of Matthew. Too much trivia he didn’t care to know. He did, however, note down her place of work, an Evergreen Studios that had no address listed on her page. He didn’t worry, that would be easy enough to find.

He typed in Robin’s name. He was surprised to see her profile photo had changed recently, one of her mid-laugh at Nick and Ilsa’s backyard under the fairy lights the other night. He could just see a hint of his arm on the back of her chair. She looked beautiful. Cormoran reminded himself to commend Nick at how well he’s learned how to use that ridiculously expensive dSLR camera he bought.

One of the first comments on Robin’s photo was Ewan Toft, who wrote “Nice meeting you! XXXXX”, his own profile photo already featuring Gwennifer Arscott in his arm. There were many others. Names he didn’t recognise, all complimenting how great the photo was, how beautiful she is, how happy she looked.

Her most recent post was last night. A quick update: “Little India Curry House is the best in London! <3” which wasn’t true, but he took to mean as a little note to herself how she enjoyed last night’s dinner. With him. He pressed ‘Like’, a rarity for him. He liked to keep his use of social media to a bare minimum.

On that post, Barclay had commented ‘I like this’ (while also liking the status itself), Tom Turvey had already commented a lengthy paragraph on how this was not true and suggested for Robin to try some upmarket restaurant in Chelsea, and Linda Ellacott had commented ‘See you soon love!’ with about fifty kisses.

He remembered tomorrow’s dinner, and felt mildy anxious at the prospect.

Robin walked inside the inner office, handing him a bunch of papers to sign.

“Your leg feeling better?”

“Yeah.” he said automatically, his hand reaching down to massage the back of his knees. It twinged, as though reminding him he’s felt a constant prickling the whole day.

Robin gave him a look.

“I does!” he said, a little defensively. He didn’t enjoy people asking after the leg like an old, sick relative.

Robin leaned over the desk, face close to his. “I’m allowed to ask.” she said, in a way he assumed was mildly copying how he had been yesterday. He smiled. “Fair enough.” he conceded. “Still hurts a bit, but it’s feeling much better.”

This satisfied her and she stood back upright again. He was dully disappointed, he thought he was going to get a kiss.

She looked the way she always did when she’s dying to tell him something.

“What have you found out?” Cormoran asked.

“She found me.” said Robin, ecstatic. “Monica.”

Robin passed him two printed out screenshots. One was a private message exchange, and the other profile page. The private message was from a ‘Monica Bouchard’ who wrote, “Just wanted you to know your husband is cheating on you. X” Off her profile page photo, Cormoran could tell she fit the CCTV woman.

Cormoran typed the name on Facebook and found her immediately. He clicked on her thousand Facebook friends and searched for Matthew Cunliffe. No hits.

“There’s a Monica Andrada that’s also on his friend list. A photographer.” said Cormoran.

Robin looked surprised. “You mean Mo Andrada?”

Cormoran pulled up her profile on his little work laptop and showed it to Robin. She was thoughtful. “I didn’t know Mo was short for Monica.”

“You know her?”

“Yeah, she dated Martin for a bit…” she trailed off. Cormoran could sense a story there. Robin was clicking around the Facebook page. “Moved here for uni…”

Cormoran didn’t voice out his deduction that Robin’s soon-to-be ex-husband copped off with his soon-to-be ex brother-in-law’s ex girlfriend. _“She was smart to get out when she did, mate.”_ Wardle’s voice rattled in his mind. He put a large hand on Robin’s back, rubbing it slightly.

“Might not be anything.” Cormoran shrugged. “Makes sense he wouldn’t add this Monica Bouchard on Facebook if it isn’t serious.”

Robin looked at Cormoran’s face. “Mo's unfriended me!”

 

* * *

 

Robin was pissed.

Why _the fuck_ is she spending her working hours—already cut short—worrying about Matthew Cunliffe and chasing his girlfriends around like she didn’t have anything better to do?

She knew why, of course. Deep down she understood that he might have been an awful choice of life partner, but that’s different from being pinned down for a terrible crime.

She’s messaged Monica Bouchard back with an invitation to meet, hoping she’d choose something other than tomorrow. She didn’t fancy having a chat with one of Matthew’s women on her bloody birthday.

So far no reply.

She moodily watched the CCTV of Matthew over and over again, not really seeing it on its maybe hundredth loop. She initially thought it was quite lucky that this happened when the agency wasn’t so busy, but now she wished she had an excuse to do something else and feel more productive and less lousy about the entire situation.

The image of the woman flashed in her mind again, and she couldn’t be sure anymore if she’s remembering it correctly. It seemed worse now in her imagination than in real life, like something from a slasher horror film.

If this Monica messaged her, she was not the woman lying at the hospital, pregnant and hurt. She knew it wasn’t Mo, either. The woman was Caucasian, and Mo was not.

She looked at Cormoran who was poring over case files in front of her, moving to the couch in the outside office presumably so they could sit together. It lightened her mood and reminded her that what she truly feels about this thing with Matt and women, is inconvenience. Cormoran is who she’s with now.

Her eyes wandered back to the CCTV video. Matthew and Monica were out of shot. The club doors opened and two guys in suits came out, followed by a woman who took half a step out before turning to head back inside.

Robin gasped. How hadn’t she seen it before!?

She slammed the spacebar to pause the video.

“What is it?” Cormoran looked up from his work, startled at the sounds she made.

She turned the monitor to face him, despite it being feet away for him to get a good look. She pointed at the fuzzy, black and white image of the woman half inside and half outside the bar.

“That’s Sarah Shadlock!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven’t lost you guys with the plot stuff yet! I thought this was just gonna be mindless fluff but I think I’m a case fic writer lol.


	15. "Did you have fun?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got a long one for you!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left comments and kudoses (kudai? lol) on the last chapter! I was not expecting Sam and Andy were hits. <3

 

 

 

Cormoran, Robin could see, was excited. The sort of excited she gets when she discovers something that’s key to a case. He walked to her desk, limping slightly to look at the video image.

It was too fuzzy to tell more than the bridge of her nose and a fuzzy outline of face, but the woman was clearly blonde and wearing that same half pony hairstyle Cormoran’s seen Sarah Shadlock wear the few times they’ve ran into each other.

Cormoran felt her phone buzz. It was a text message from a number his phone didn’t recognise: “I’m downstairs. Don’t bring Rob. A”

Cormoran walked to the window and peered down. There was somebody holding a bunch of balloons just by the door to the building. Whatever the balloons hadn’t obscured, Cormoran noticed floral-printed trousers. Anthony.

Robin was on her phone, making a call, still thrilled at her discovery. “I’ll just pop down for a smoke.” said Cormoran and got a thumbs up in reply.

“What’s up?” he asked as he stepped out of their building. Anthony was inundated with a few dozen multi-coloured balloons. He was also accompanied by two pretty women who were carrying various paper bags.

“This is Robin’s boyfriend, Cormoran!” said Anthony, introducing him to his companions.

“Oh my god! Hi!” said one of them in an American accent, a freckly slender woman with a crop of dark curly hair under a wicker hat, wearing a garishly mustard yellow button down shirt with plaid pants. “I’m Ali!” she said, reaching out to hug him. He instinctively bent a bit to let her, though not reciprocating the gesture any more.

The other woman, dirty blonde, wearing tight jeans, a white t-shirt and a leather jacket only extended her hand. “Lily.” Cormoran shook it.

“These are Robin’s besties!” said Anthony.

“Oh,” Cormoran was staggered. “Right.” and a little resentful it had been Anthony who introduced them. Robin’s mentioned them before, but not in any significant way. The last couple of weeks (years) have been very busy.

“Yeah. Oh my god, you’re a lot less injured since I last saw you.” said Ali with a sort of nervous talkative energy. Cormoran assumed Ali saw him at Robin’s wedding. “Sorry. I’m being weird. You’re just… she talks about you a lot.”

“We were in the area and we just wanted to ask if you could help us? Have her at her flat by 7:30?” Lily interjected. Unlike her friend, she was British. “A bunch of us are in town. We’re setting up a party, just drinks and presents and catch-up.”

Cormoran thought it was a very kind thing to do. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Ali beamed at him. “Great! It’s a surprise okay, so don’t tell her.

“I won’t.”

“Awesome. I’m sure you two are busy doing the whole Sherlock and Watson thing. Thanks for coming down to meet us!”

“No problem.”

He watched them walk off, the balloons visible even from yards away. When he was satisfied he had been gone the length of a smoke break, he went back upstairs.

 

* * *

 

Robin initially thought Sarah Shadlock sent her purposely to voice mail until she remembered Tom saying she was in America for work. It was just after lunch in New York, she might be preoccupied.

Robin didn’t bother to leave a voice mail, opting for a text message: “Hi Sarah, can you call me at your earliest convenience? Thanks.”

She didn’t know what Sarah would tell her, or if she could help at all. Robin only knew that she was there that day. Maybe she’d recognise the reconstructed photo of the woman, maybe she could fill in the rest of Matthew’s night after Robin left him. Despite never ever being useful or of help to her before (Robin chose to forget how she was her arts contact for the Chiswell case), Sarah Shadlock might prove her wrong yet.

“Did you get a hold of Sarah?” Cormoran asked as he came back up the office.

“Forgot she’s in the States. I texted, but it’s still work hours over there.”

“Monica Bouchard replied to you yet?”

Robin looked at her screen. She’d been constantly refreshing Facebook in the last hour.

“No.” she said a little sadly. “Maybe she just wanted to taunt me. If she doesn’t get back to me tomorrow, I’ll come to her on Wednesday.” Robin already noted that Monica worked as an executive assistant at Goldman Sachs in Stonecutter St, near The Viaduct Tavern.

Cormoran nodded. He looked quite cheerful.

“Feeling better?” she asked, smiling at him.

“Much better.” he said. “What do you want to do about the other Monica?”

Robin sighed. She still didn’t know what to make of that. She found it oddly repugnant, the thought of Matthew dating Mo. They all knew each other as children. Where was his line, she wondered. Who has he turned into?

“I think I’d rather talk to Monica first. Mo could just be a coincidence.” she said a little naively. Tom said the Monica Matthew brought to work had ‘monstrous thighs’, and she wouldn’t think that of Mo— or anyone, for that matter. Tom Turvey is an arsehole so daft, he doesn’t even realise he’s marrying a cow.

The clock struck 5 PM. Robin looked up from her work to find Cormoran nodding off at the couch. She walked up to him and sat beside. He woke up at the sudden movement.

“Sorry.” she said gently, hand on his shoulder, rubbing his back slightly. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Where are you going?” he looked at her, then turn to the coffee table to start tidying up papers littered about.

“Home,” she said. “I feel disgusting. I’ve been wearing these pants since yesterday.”

Robin was feeling gross. She had to make do with what she had inside her purse by way of hygiene that day. She’s never ever had to do that before, she’s never been in a position where she didn’t want to leave a man for long enough to make sure she can groom herself. It’s a little ridiculous. She was sure it’s because it’s new, because if this goes on forever, she’d be so disgusting, Cormoran might leave her.

He smiled. “So take ‘em off.” he joked.

She laughed shaking her head, poking him playfully at the cheek with her finger. He pretended to catch it with a bite.

He looked at her, in a sort of expressionless way that’s mildly searching. She liked it when he looked at her, and wondered if he looked at the others like that. She hoped not. There’s a sadness in his features, like he’d seen things or been through things. Robin knew that perfectly well of course, but she longed to tell him, almost nonsensically, _You’re alright._ _You’re home_.

“D’you want to come upstairs?” he asked.

Robin smiled, giving him a shrewd look. He chuckled. “I was just going to pack a bag, but you can stay here and wait for me if you want.”

 

* * *

 

He moved inside her slowly, evenly, their naked bodies hot under covers and close. It was quiet, save for his soft grunts and the hitch in her gasps. They looked at each other, her arms wrapped around his back. He felt cradled between her as she wrapped her legs around him, as he rocked languidly as though this was all there was in the world.

She was so beautiful, with her face red, her mouth slightly agape, her blue-grey eyes looking into his dark ones as though he was the only thing that mattered.

He caught a gasp with his mouth as he kissed her on an upward thrust, and she breathed deeply as he pulled away.

This wasn’t sex, he thought. This wasn’t the primal need in humans for reproduction, for glorious friction. It wasn’t dirty or wrong or complicated or desperate.

No, _this_ , was love.

 

* * *

 

Robin was already dressed, trying to distract herself from the discomfort of still wearing the jeans, shirt, and underwear she had on since yesterday afternoon. She wondered if it was too soon to keep cabinets at each other’s places, and laughed to herself as she realised it was obviously too soon.

She had failed to _get a grip_ that she just decided she wouldn’t. Fuck taking it slow. Fuck thought and caution and realism. She’s done everything right, and even then she got hurt and made painful mistakes. There’s only this. Her. Now. Where she was, who she was with.

She watched Cormoran carefully packing a bag, thrilled to think he was doing so because he wanted to stay next to her. He was very neat, tidying up as he went along, folding back sweaters he thought twice about.

He caught her staring and stuck a tongue out at her. She laughed.

She couldn’t believe she once thought she couldn’t picture him saying endearments to women. _Everything_ he does is endearing. There were no hideously saccharine pet names, but she noticed how differently he talks to her now. Gentler, softer, more playful and unguarded. Like they were always coated with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

She hoped it was love.

 

* * *

 

A bang, a shower of confetti, and a deafening year of “Surprise!” welcomed them both as Robin opened the door to her flat. Young people Cormoran did not know nor recognised suddenly engulfed Robin in a sort of group hug he was afraid for a second would throttle her.

But she laughed as some other friend deftly kept her upright, and she looked exultant.

“Corm!”

Cormoran turned and it was Nina, Robin’s sister-in-law, squeezing through the merry group to get at him for a hug. He kissed her cheek. “Hi,” he said pleasantly. He let go of her, and Jonathan, Robin’s youngest brother, also gave him a friendly hug.

As Robin’s friends pulled her further into the living room, Cormoran saw the house had been decorated with colourful streamers and balloons and a large calligraphy banner saying “Happy birthday, Robin!” with paintings of tiny robins and branches.

Anthony, who was in a tight-fitting bird print suit walked in with a chilled champagne, and popped the cork. Cormoran watched, amused, as he tried catching the spilling champagne, taking sips from the glass as it got full. Behind him, just in the kitchen, he spotted Ilsa.

He manoeuvred around the room—it was packed with maybe a dozen people—to get to the other side.

“Corm! You know Stephen,” said Ilsa as he bent to give her a kiss.

“Hi.” said Stephen in his deep voice. He opened the fridge to hand Cormoran a beer. “Cheers.” said Cormoran, grateful.

“This is the adults area.” Nick joked, referring to the raucous merriment in the living room.

“We were just talking to Stephen about renovating our flat, Corm. You didn’t tell us Robin’s brother had a construction company.” said Ilsa.

“I didn’t know, actually.” said Cormoran, truthfully.

His eyes went back to Stephen, who bit into a sandwich. Cormoran realised he was hungry, and then that there was no food around, other than a bowl of crisps his friends were snacking on.

“Is there no food?” he asked, unable to help himself.

Ilsa laughed. “Just booze.” she said, sipping presumably alcohol from a plastic cup. “But Anthony’s called for takeaway, it should be here soon.”

Just then, Robin appeared. “Hey guys!” she said, going round the table to kiss Nick, Stephen, then Ilsa. “You’re here!”

“Happy birthday, Rob!” said Ilsa cheerfully.

“Thank you!” she replied, hand finding Cormoran’s and pulling him up. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you to everybody.” she said. Cormoran just had enough time to see Stephen stare at their clasped hands and then arch his thick eyebrows at him before he was led out of the kitchen.

Robin’s friends were crammed in the living room, some squeezed on the couch while a few of the guys sat around the coffee table, mixing drinks they were handing out to everyone. A couple shared the recliner, the woman sitting astride the man’s lap.

“This is Sophie,” said Robin about the blonde woman. “And Daniel, her husband.” said Robin about the man she was sat on. Both gave quick waves hello.

“You’ve met my brothers, Mart and Jon.” she said, stepping behind them and tapping them on the head as she passed.

Robin sat next to Ali, and a couple to his right shifted down the couch to give Cormoran space. It was a tight fit.

“That’s my cousin Harry,” said Robin to the woman sitting next to him. Harry had Robin’s blue-grey eyes and strawberry blonde hair, though hers were curly and wild. “And her boyfriend, Dev.” Robin pointed at the man, who had East Asian features.

“This is my mate Ali,” said Robin, squeezing Ali in a sort of choke hold and kissed the top of her head. Cormoran chuckled. “And that’s Lily and Uma.”

Two women walked down the stairs. A very tall dark-haired lady in red lipstick that made Cormoran think of 20s flapper girls, and a petite young woman with Asian features that looked younger than anyone else.

“That’s Phoebe,” Robin pointed at the tall lady. “And Nikki, Mart’s girlfriend.”

Martin had a type, Cormoran thought amused. Yet another person came in from the half bathroom. Slender, clear-faced, and blonde. “Oh, that’s Shane!”

Cormoran gave the room another glance over, recalling each of their names in his head.

Cormoran learned that they were actually Robin’s friends from university, save for her brothers and her cousin. The errant Sophie and Daniel were a young couple the group had met on a trip to Greece a couple of years back.

They were a fun group, boisterously recounting past misadventures over hard drink. Robin was jubilant the entire time, consuming a steady flow of cocktails Anthony kept handing her.

They also moved about a lot, splintering into tiny conversations over the loud music. He learned more about them this way. He was surprised to learn that Harriet was a journalist whose work he was actually familiar with. Ali was an artist based in Berlin. Lily, he was surprised to find out was a psychologist (she seemed very chill and pretty) while Uma, who had a South African accent, was a lawyer.

Shane, the only male member of Robin’s university friend group, was Australian and quite naturally and matter-of-factly told Cormoran that he was a drag queen.and Phoebe recently took up an editor position at Roeper & Chard.

“I was based in New York for a few years, yeah. Thank fuck Daniel Chard poached me right out of there. That city’s even more hellish than this one!” she quipped. “Nina Lascelles says hi, by the way.”

“Does she now?”

 

* * *

 

Robin laughed as she realised what her friend Lily got her for her birthday. It was a vibrator.

“You’re always giving everyone vibrators!” Ali exclaimed, yanking it from Robin’s hands. “Do you get them in bulk or something?”

Nick and Ilsa got her a pair of fancy memory foam pillows. Stephen walked in with a very large wrapped box and handed it over. Cormoran stood to take it and placed it on the floor by her feet.

She gasped when she opened it, very touched. It was an ergonomic office chair. “You can exchange it if it’s not the model you want,” he offered as she hugged him, and then Nina. “I’ll hand you the gift receipt later.”

“Thank you! I love it!”

“I’ll have mum and dad bring mine tomorrow.” said Martin, which meant he didn’t get her anything. She laughed. She didn’t mind, she only cared that he was there. Jonathan gave her a big tin of her favorite sweets and teas from Betty’s.

Sophie and Daniel got her a pair of adorable Moroccan babouche from a recent trip to Marrakesh. Uma gave her a bunch of books related to detective work and psychology, which she loved. Phoebe—who she suspected earned the most among her friends, apart from coming from money—gave her a Salvatore Ferragamo purse, and Shane gave her a silver belt in a paper bag from Vashti.

“I was going to get you a man,” Shane joked. “but lucky I didn’t, as you already got one!”

Her cousin Harriet got her a pair of diamond stud earrings, which gave her a frisson of anxiousness, but appreciated it all the same. Ali handed her a rectangular gift wrapped in newspaper.

“Is that an iPad, Al?” Jonathan joked.

Robin opened it and gasped. “Ali!”

It was a painting of a woman who resembled her face, hand outstretched beyond an umbrella that was raining down on her sad face. It was a copy of her favorite work by her friend that she painted on the wall by the staircase that ended her university career. Ali herself had been expelled for the vandalism, and dropped out in solidarity for how poorly their university supported Robin in the aftermath.

It was the artwork that launched Ali’s career too, after recreating it as a large scale version in Berlin. It was a popular mural there, and Robin had been recognised a few times when she visited.

She was touched, and hugged her best friend tightly.

“Seriously, Ali. Are you Banksy?” Jonathan asked, the serious look on his face made everyone erupt with laughter.

Anthony went in with the cake, a large square one with twenty-eight candles. As they sang her happy birthday, she heard Cormoran singing in her ear and she was surprised to find out that he had a nice voice.

She closed her eyes, feeling Cormoran next to her. She held his hand. There was nothing she wished for really, but made two anyway.

 _I wish Matt’s case would turn out okay,_ she told herself, _and that he’d divorce me already._

She blew out the candles and everyone cheered.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran planned on smoking, but saw Stephen drinking by the bushes outside. Knowing he’d been spotted, and knowing it would be more suspect to head back inside when he already had a cigarette in his mouth, he lit it up anyway and walked to him.

“You and Rob, huh?” Stephen asked without preamble.

“Yep.” Cormoran said instantly.

Stephen sighed. Cormoran could tell he didn’t approve of him, and he was mildly disappointed. While he didn’t need their approval, nor did he seek it, he found that he wanted Robin’s family to like him.

“Have you got a sister, Cormoran?”

He had several. “Yeah.”

“D’you like your sister’s partner?”

“Not particularly.”

This earned Cormoran a smirk Stephen couldn’t suppress.

“I fucking hated Matthew,” said Stephen. “He’s a tit! Arrogant bastard who thought he was too good for everyone and every thing.” he sighed heavily again. “But Rob loved him, and he was good to her. A lot less of an arsehole with Robin around.”

Cormoran wished he also had a pint.

“Has Rob told you why she left uni?”

“Yeah.”

“He’d been with her that whole time, Matt. And I appreciated that, the whole family did.”

Cormoran could tell Stephen was already drunk. He didn’t think they’d be having this conversation otherwise.

“It’s very hard to be Rob’s big brother.” said Stephen. “Like I’m always failing her.”

Cormoran didn’t utter a sound.

“We were bastards to her as children. I wasn’t there for her at uni, wasn’t there for her when she had her arm sliced open, in that boat with the gun man. Didn’t speak up when I thought marrying Cunliffe was an idiotic idea… Like, every time I see her, she’s always a little bit hurt.”

He held Cormoran by the shoulder and gripped. “I like you Cormoran.” said Stephen. “I can tell you like my sister.”

“I love her.” Cormoran corrected him immediately, the first ever time he’s said it to anyone out loud.

Stephen sighed again. “But you’re not _safe_ , are you? She’s always going to be a little bit hurt with you, wouldn’t she?”

Cormoran felt heat in his fingers and dropped the cigarette that burnt to the filter forgotten. He stomped on it, and wedged it dead into the pavement.

“Ahh!” Stephen exclaimed, withdrawing his hand, taking a swig from his beer. “She wouldn’t listen to me anyway. Never had.”

“Are you driving?” Cormoran asked.

Stephen suddenly beamed. “Nope! Nina’s having babies!”

“Congratulations!” said Cormoran, genuinely happy for them.

“Twin girls, we’re told.” This only made Stephen drink more.

 

* * *

 

Robin found Cormoran chatting with Nick, Ilsa, and Anthony in the kitchen. She went up to him, standing behind where he was sat and draped her arms over his shoulders, and bent to kiss him by the ear.

“Give us one.” she said and he forked a piece of cake and fed it to her.

He held the arm that was hugging her around the neck. “Have they all gone?”

“Jonathan passed out on the sofa.” she said amused. “But yeah.”

“I think that’s our cue.” said Ilsa, who Robin could feel was watching both of them closely. They stood up, Anthony with them. “I’ll see them out.”

They said their goodbyes to Nick and Ilsa, Robin refusing to untangle herself from Cormoran. She kissed his shoulder and felt his cheek smile against hers.

“I think I’ll go to work tomorrow.” she said, mouth still on his shoulder. He chuckled. “There wouldn’t be anything for you to do.”

“I can do the Elroys, give Andy the day off.”

Cormoran untangled her arms around his neck, pulling her to sit on his lap.

“Andy’s not the one with the birthday tomorrow.” said Cormoran, hand cupping her face, pulling her for a soft kiss. “You can sleep in, we haven’t been sleeping much lately.” he joked.

She laughed, kissing him again, wrapping her arms around his neck, darting her tongue in his mouth. He tasted like beer and chocolate cake. “Let’s go upstairs.” she said breathily into his mouth. He smiled and kissed her again. They didn’t move for awhile, just making out, Robin with a vague impression of Anthony tidying up around them.

“You done with that, Corm?” he asked.

The finally pulled away and Robin sprung up as Comoran moved swiftly to stand up himself.

“I’ll get it. Thanks, Ant.”

“It’s fine, seriously.” said Anthony, tugging the plate from Cormoran’s hand. “You two go ahead.”

Robin hugged Anthony tightly. “Thanks for this Anthony. You’re my favorite roommate, ever.”

Her roommate laughed. “It wasn’t me! It was your friend, Ali! I just offered up the house.”

Robin kissed him on the cheek.

“Go and get a good shag before he falls asleep! Go!” he joked as Cormoran left the kitchen.

Robin saw Cormoran drape a woollen blanket over her brother, putting down a chips bowl on the floor by his face in case he puked.

“He hasn’t puked since he was fifteen,” said Robin, walking up to him, wrapping her arms around his neck again. She was swaying to the soft sound of Elbow still playing on the stereo.

“Really?” Cormoran asked, intrigued. Hands to her waist. He was swaying, too.

“I think it’s a disorder.” Robin joked. They both laughed.

_What made me behave that way  
_ _Using words I never say  
_ _I can only think it must be love_

“Did you have fun?” asked Cormoran softly, face close to hers.

She smiled, fingers to his brows, looking into his eyes. She nodded. 

_Someone tell me how I feel  
_ _It’s silly wrong but vivid right_

She kissed him. He pressed her forehead against hers, humming.

“You like this song?” Robin asked, one hand holding his on her back. He was leading, and they were moving. She didn’t know he could dance.

“It’s my favorite.” he said, pulling her closer in an embrace. He kissed her cheek, her neck, her shoulder.

_Cause holy cow, I love your eyes  
_ _And only now, I see the light  
_ _Yeah lying with me half awake  
_ _Oh, anyway it’s looking like a beautiful day_

He rested his forehead on hers again, whispering. “Happy birthday, baby.” he kissed her. “Happy birthday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That little scene is brought to you by Tom Burke and Honor Swinton Byrne dancing in The Souvenir and murdering me, basically.


	16. "How long is it before someone is missing?"

 

 

 

Robin still went to work with him that morning, saying that Anthony had errands and would pick her up at the office mid-morning for that spa day they’ve scheduled.

They worked on assembling the chair Stephen had bought Robin for her birthday until Sam arrived.

“Happy birthday, Rob! From the missus.” said Sam, handing Robin a box filled with cupcakes. “Baked ‘em herself.”

“Thank you!” said Robin enthusiastically.

Sam knelt next to where Cormoran was trying to figure out the chair, pulled out a lip balm, put some on, held Cormoran’s head and pulled to kiss him on the cheek. Cormoran twisted, yanking his head away from his hold. He was strong, Sam Barclay.

Robin was euphoric. And they started laughing, too.

“I thought we needed to punch in!” said Barclay, puckering his lips to him still.

Cormoran shook his head. “Just help us get this assembled, alright?”

When Cormoran least expected it, Sam still leaned for a quick peck on the cheek. Robin squealed with delight.

Anthony arrived by mid-morning, in short shorts and a tight white t-shirt with large pink text saying ‘Wild Child’ that made Cormoran’s skittish client gape, gobsmacked.

Robin waved goodbye, desisting from physical affection in the work place. Cormoran felt mildly bummed about that.

The day progressed less miserably when Cormoran was out tailing people of interest. When he was just at the office, it felt lonely and sad, and he wondered how he ever got on in the early days just by himself.

Robin’s new chair was very comfortable. He wondered how much it cost. He looked around the office, idly imagining tearing down the wall to make the inner office bigger to fit both him and Robin inside. He quite liked working together quietly in the same room.

The agency can’t afford a renovation yet, though. But maybe he should think about an expansion. A full-time secretary, an office for Robin. Maybe they can expand to the attic upstairs and him and Robin can get a place to move in together.

 _Hold your horses,_ his sensible brain reprimanded.

A text message from Robin.

He opened it and suddenly sat upright. It was a photo of her naked, laid on the massage table with black stones lining her spine. He could see the sides of her breasts, her arms dangling overhead. There was a tiny towel covering her buttocks and even then he could see the top cleft of it. 

It was _her_ birthday, he thought. And he gets a present, too! This was probably the closest thing to a sexy text he’ll ever get with Robin, and he didn’t mind one bit. He’ll get to hold her soon enough.

“What are you up to? X” she texted.

Cormoran took a photo of his sandwich and sent it. She replied with a sad face emoji.

He missed her already.

Cormoran heard the door open. He swivelled to see who had come in.

It was Matthew.

“Where’s, ah, where’s Robin?” Matthew Cunliffe croaked, holding a bouquet of purple tulips and looking terribly gaunt. He was pale, his hair longer than he’s ever seen the man, patchy facial hair was coming in.

“She’s not in today.” said Cormoran. He felt a bit bad for him. He didn’t strike Matthew as the sort of man who could handle truly difficult things, and he was going through multiple just now.

“Could you give her this for me?” he handed her the bouquet. Cormoran had half a mind not to take it, but considered he could use some kindness.

Matthew dawdled. Cormoran knew there was something he was thinking twice about. “What is it?”

Matthew put his hands in his pockets, looking away from him. “How long is it before someone is missing?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Before they’re missing and did not just, you know, go away for a bit.”

“Who’s missing, Matthew?” Cormoran asked urgently. “Who can’t you find?”

 

* * *

 

When Robin arrived back in Denmark Street, Andy was at her desk.

“Just you?” she asked, walking up to the beautiful bouquet of tulips on her desk. She smelled it. How’d Cormoran know she loved tulips?

“Yeah. Corm stepped out for a bit. Didn’t say where he went. Hot date?” he sniggered.

Robin chuckled. “Just dinner. My parents are here from Masham.”

“Corm got you the chair, Rob?” he asked, standing up to let her sit on it.

“My brother Stephen, actually.”

“We got you a little something, me and the wife.” said Andy, handing her a paper bag. “Well, more her than me, I suppose.”

It was a knitted scarf. “Thank you!” said Robin, hugging him. “Thank Louise for me.”

“That’s him back.” said Andy of the steps they heard walking up the stairs. They waited for Cormoran to head to the office, but seemed to have walked directly up to his attic flat.

“Thanks again, Andy!” said Robin, exiting the office to head up to Cormoran’s flat.

He was changing out of a shirt when she walked inside his bedroom.

“Hi,” said Robin, stepping into him, tiptoeing to kiss him. He kissed back, wrrapping his arms around her.

“How was your day?” he asked in her ear, hugging her tight.

“Great.” she said, happier now that they’re together again. “Missed you, though.”

“Missed you,” he said, soft kisses on her mouth.

“Thanks for the flowers. I love them.”

He loosed his embrace. “Those were from Matthew, actually.”

She was stunned at this. “Matthew? He came by the office?”

“Yeah.”

“You two didn’t fight, did you?” she said, alarmed.

“Why would we fight?” Cormoran asked, nettled, letting her go. “He asked me how long it was before someone is considered missing.”

“Oh my…” said Robin, fingers to her lips in surprise.

“Did he tell you who?”

Cormoran shook his head.

She pulled out her phone to check her Facebook messages. Monica Bouchard had replied. “Monica wants to meet me tomorrow afternoon at The Viaduct Tavern. Maybe she’s ignoring Matt and he thinks she’s missing?”

“Maybe.” said Cormoran, though his face looked unconvinced.

 

* * *

 

He liked her in his bedroom, walking about, casual and comfortable in her underwear as she ironed her hair. She noticed him watching her from his mirror’s reflection and smirked.

“Who took that picture you sent this afternoon? From the spa?” he asked, he had been curious. Did the masseuse do it for her?

“Anthony.” she laughed to herself. “We were goofing off when the lady went out to get us more towels. We got told off after, actually. We’re not supposed to be on our phones.”

“You got massages together?”

“Those romance packages are cheaper. We had to pretend to be newlyweds, though I don’t think they bought it one bit, Anthony’s shorts were shorter than my dress!”

Cormoran grinned, amused. Robin put on a beige dress that draped like silk on her. You would think it would wash her out, but it only brightened up her skin and made the gold in her hair almost sparkle. She’s so beautiful. _Lucky man, Cormoran Strike._

She put on the diamond earrings that she got from her cousin last night. She hasn’t even shown a hint of sulk or moodiness despite him being the only person in her life who didn’t get her anything. They’re the best kinds of people to get presents for, Cormoran mused, those who did not expect anything. Charlotte would’ve wailed like a tantruming child.

“Let’s go.” said Robin, smoothing out her dress.

Cormoran was surprised, he didn’t even notice her put on make-up. “What, that’s it? You’re not going to put on more?”

She looked taken aback. _Shit_. He’s said something offensive. 

“Should I?”

“No!” he said immediately, contrite. “I just thought women wore more.”

She smiled. “Sometimes we do, but I always go for a more natural look with this dress.”

He blinked at her face, standing up and bending to look closer. “You’re not wearing any make-up?”

“Just some gloss and a little eyeliner.”

He was gobsmacked. She was beautiful and flawless, her adorable freckles clear from closer up. “Your skin is amazing!”

She giggled and tiptoed, kissing his cheek.

 

* * *

 

Stephen, who was also paying for this dinner, had booked a private room at the Japanese restaurant Robin picked out. Her family was already there when they arrived, her mother immediately fussing over her.

“Darling!” she exclaimed, looking at her bandage. It was smaller now, just a little over the size of her stitches. She was a little worried it might scar, not out of vanity, but she rather not have a constant reminder of what can happen when she has panic attacks.

“What happened to you?”

“Just a little accident, mum. It’s already healing.”

“You look like you’ve got stitches!”

“Happy birthday, monkey.” said her father, calling her by the affectation he always called her, kissing her as she pulled away from her mother whose attention was still completely on her little injury. “We heard you had a little party last night? How’d it go?”

Robin smiled. “Great! Ali—”

“Oh, Cormoran!” said Robin’s mum, shock on her face. 

“Hello,” said Cormoran tepidly, cautiously. He already looked awkward, halfway into the paper-padded room.

“You didn’t tell us you invited Cormoran.” said Linda, blinking expectantly at her. Robin shot her brothers a look. She was honestly surprised that none of them had said. She had been especially surprised by Martin, who particularly enjoyed shocking his parents a little. She couldn’t quite believe that he chose this time to suddenly show some tact.

Cormoran took the remaining empty seat next to Robin. _Here goes._

“We’re seeing each other, mum, of course I invited him.”

The vaguely pleasant smile on her mother’s face slumped instantly. “Oh.”

“You were saying something about Ali, monkey?” her dad interjected.

 

* * *

 

Dinner had been a stilted occasion. It amazed Cormoran a little bit how Linda had turned against him. He thought he made a good enough impression the first time they met. Of course, working with their daughter and dating her are two entirely different things. She could’ve forgiven and liked him as Robin’s work friend, but he saw it etched on her face. Linda thought he was a poor romantic match for her stunning daughter.

He couldn’t entirely disagree, and really he was not the sort of person to go running for the hills over disapproving family. He’s had over a decade of experience with the Campbells, and they were a more intimidating and ruder lot.

It could’ve been worse, he supposed. No one shouted at him. He didn’t have to walk out, Robin in hand, yanking her away from her hateful family. They hadn’t been hateful, or mean. Just curt and unhappy. At least Linda was. Michael Ellacott was a little harder to read.

What he was really sorry about, was Robin looking sad in the passenger’s seat, arms folded and silently sulking on the ride back to her place. He put a hand on her thigh, rubbing at it a little, hoping he was consoling her.

He wanted to make a joke, allude to the crazy things he’s had to put up with in the face of disapproving parents. But she definitely didn’t look like she was in the mood.

He pulled her aside as her family walked in the door. He touched her cheek gently with his finger, getting her to look at him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Linda frown even at this. “I’ll head out. Go be with your family. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She was instantly livid.

“Don’t be stupid!” she exclaimed, perhaps a little loudly than expected. She took his hand and tugged him inside. He sighed, faintly feeling like he was about to storm enemy camp.

“Don’t leave.” she snapped at him warningly and he heard Martin snigger, sat on the chair closest to him. Robin went into the kitchen where her parents had gone.

He sat next to Martin, who patted him on the back. “That’s alright, Corm.” he said. “We like you. Don’t we, Jon?”

Jonathan shrugged, helping himself to the bottle of vodka that was left out from last night’s party.

“Stephen?”

He only grunted. Cormoran already knew Stephen didn’t like him.

“Nins?” Martin asked hopefully. Nina smiled kindly at them. “Of course I like Cormoran.”

“There you go! That’s almost half the family, if you count Robin. More, if you count the twins—”

“Mart!” Stephen barked.

“You should just tell them, ease the heat off of Corm here for a sec.”

“It’s Robin’s birthday, you git.”

Martin chuckled. “Fine. If you ask me, the grandbabies card is exactly what would lighten up the mood around here.”

“Will you shut the fuck up about the babies already?” Stephen warned.

Martin mimed zipping his mouth. “Hand us a shot, Jon. One for Corm, too.”

It wasn’t Cormoran’s drink of choice, but he welcomed the opportunity for alcohol.

Linda and Robin emerged, both red faced and angry, handing plates of cake to everyone. “Let me help,” Nina offered, standing up.

Cormoran saw Stephen squeeze her shoulder as he got up himself. “I’ll do it.”

“Don’t worry, Corm.” said Martin thickly. “Rob’s not really big on listening to mum and dad. I don’t know why she’d start now.”

“Rob’s right, ma…” said Stephen’s voice from the kitchen, unable to keep the so far soft whisper-fighting mother and daughter were clearly having in the kitchen. He knew he should leave, and if it were any other woman, he would’ve. But this was Robin, and he’ll do just about anything to keep her.

 

* * *

 

“For god’s sake, Robin! Look at _you_!” her mother exclaimed, finding it harder and harder to keep her voice low so that it doesn’t carry into the living room.

“I’m fine, mum! This isn’t—”

“Fine!” Linda exclaimed, hysterically, no longer whispering. “Bandage on your head, gun to your face, what would it take— do you want me and your father to have a heart attack, is that it?”

She was gesticulating, and Robin was erratically slicing her birthday cake and trying not to cry. Fighting with her mum always gets her emotional.

“Linda,” her father said, trying to calm her but both of them knew there was no talking her down at this state. She will have to say her piece.

“And _that man_!”

Robin put down the knife. It clattered on the table.

“What?” said Robin. “What about Cormoran?”

“Robin, you’re not even divorced!”

“What’s that got to do with it? I’m not getting back together with Matthew. He’s moved on, I’ve moved on—”

“But you’re not _divorced_!” Linda repeated. “You’re still _married_ , for Christ’s sake!”

“Don’t worry, mum,” she said, bending her head down to scoop mangled cakes onto tiny plates. Her hands were shaking, eyes clouding with unshed tears. “I’ll tell all your friends so you don’t have to. I’ll explain to them the mistakes of my life, and how it’s all my fault, and that you ought to not be blamed because you told me. You _told_ me not to do it unless I’m sure—”

“Robin,” said her dad quellingly but it was no use. A torrent of pain was trying to break out from her chest all at once. How angry she was at herself for this colossal failure of a marriage, how hurt she is that her mother—the most important person in her life—disapproved so openly of Cormoran, how scared she is that she might be on the verge of some mental break with the case, and the divorce, and worrying about Matt, and keeping her heart in tact when all she wants is to give it away again so soon.

“He’s so much older than you, Robin! How much older is he? _Jesus_! And the job! _Look at you!_ You’re all cut up, your head, your arm, panic attacks! Look at what’s happened to you since you met him! What kind of man would take advantage—”

She slumped on the chair and dropped the fork she was holding. Sobbing. _Fuck_. Isn’t she supposed to be an adult? What kind of grown woman with a job and an apartment and a divorce on the way cries when confronted like this?

“Okay.” said Stephen in his deep, calm voice. “Okay, mum. I think Rob’s got the point.”

Her mother sat on an empty chair in front of her, and cupped her face in her gentle hands. “I’m just so worried about you, darling. I’m so worried. You nearly died.” cried her mother. “I love you so much.” she said, hugging her. Robin kept her hands on her lap, wringing it.

The last time she could remember her mother cry in front of her had been _then_. When she first arrived at the hospital and saw Robin’s bruised face and wanted to hold her only daughter who recoiled at her touch.

She wiped snot off her nose. “I love him, mum. I’m in love with him.”

She felt her mother wipe her tears away from her cheek. “I don’t think you are, darling. I don’t think you do. Not like this. Not yet.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m telling you Nins,” said Martin. “Grandbabies card. Instant mood lifter.”

They could hear the sobbing, but not what was being said. Linda had yelled a bit, and they heard the part about her yelling about how much older Cormoran was. That had been when Jonathan sat on Cormoran’s other side and patted him on the back too.

“I like you too, Cormoran. I think you’re cool.”

He wanted to see her. Just wanted to say goodbye. If she was going to fight her mother, or listen to her, he wanted to give her space to do it.

Robin finally emerged, eyes swollen with so much tears.

“C’mon,” she said, taking Cormoran’s hand and pulling him out and through the front door. He let her cart him off to his BMW, as she frustratedly pulled at the locked door.

“Open it.” she said. “Why won’t it open? Cormoran…”

He pulled her to him and enveloped her in his large embrace. She cried in his shoulder. “Shhh. It’s okay.” he cooed, hand to her head, stroking her hair. “Stay with them tonight, okay?” he told her gently, kissing her wet cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He kissed her upper lip. Finally, she nodded.

Somewhere in there, while haphazardly hearing all the things that made him unsuitable for Robin, Cormoran decided that this time, he’ll do things differently. He will not allow Robin to run away, to alienate her own family. That had been Charlotte Campbell’s raison d’etre, and he had always been her accomplice. He had been complicit in creating the mad us against the world whirlpool that ruined them both.

He watched her sadly walk back inside her apartment as he drove away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a story also about Matthew, he sure took his time before showing up.


	17. "What does that even mean?"

 

 

 

Anthony was kind enough to lend her the entire apartment so her parents could stay over. Once things have cooled, she led them upstairs, and thought it was so kind and sweet of Anthony to have put a little cardboard signage on his door that said ‘Linda & Michael Ellacott’.

He even changed his sheets, and put out a little gift basket for them that had snacks and tea and toiletries.

She kissed them both goodnight and went back to her brothers.

Jonathan had pulled out all the hard liquor that was littered around the house and put them on the dining room table, making suspicious cocktails that were alternately delicious and disgusting. Her younger brother, who is an architect, fancied himself a bartender.

Robin didn’t care, really. She wanted to get drunk.

“How does it feel to be twenty-eight, Rob?” Jonathan asked, passing her a plastic cup with aqua liquid that looked like mouthwash. It tipped over and they scrambled to keep it from spilling on the floor. Robin finished what remained in one gulp.

“Shit.” she hiccuped.

Stephen, who was large, thumped her rather hard on the back. “That’s alright, Rob. Dad wasn’t speaking to me when I turned twenty-eight, remember?”

Stephen had borrowed a significant amount of money from their estranged uncle to start up his own construction company. Robin had never seen their father that livid before. The fallout lasted four months, ending when their father had a minor health scare. Stephen ended up paying back the loan at half the time he promised, including interest.

“Nah,” said Martin. “That’s not how you cheer Bobbi up! Go on, Pen. It’s only fair since even Cormoran knows now.”

“Because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, idiot!”

“What does Cormoran know?” Robin hiccupped, still not feeling cheered.

“Not on Rob’s birthday, I told you.” warned Stephen.

“It’s not her birthday anymore!” quipped Jonathan. “It’s 12:05.”

“It’s 12:05 and 57 seconds, Pen. Go on! Tell her! Tell her! Tell her!” said Martin, checking his phone. He showed the screen to Jonathan who sniggered before joining in his chants. “Tell her! Tell her!”

“Tell me _what?_ ” Robin asked, agitated. It was like they were young kids again, and her annoying brothers would exclude her in things because she was a girl.

“Shhh!” said Stephen, casting a glance at the stairs. “Okay, we’ll say it. Shut the fuck up, you two!”

“What is it?” Robin asked, half-whining. This was distracting her.

“I’m pregnant!” Nina squealed, unable to contain her excitement.

“ _What?_ ” Robin exclaimed, suddenly elated. She ran to her sister in law to hug her, and then to her brother. “Oh my god! That’s so great! Wow!”

“It’s twin girls.” Jonathan added.

“No! Really? That’s incredible!”

“You should’ve seen the look on Pen’s face, Bobbi. Never seen him that petrified.”

They all laughed.

“Don’t know why you were so shocked, bruv. Nins is a twin, her mum is a twin, her grandmum is a twin.” said Martin.

Stephen only rolled his eyes.

They started tidying up in relative silence, only Martin’s phone’s persistent ringing cutting through the quiet.

“Put it on silent, Mart! You’ll wake mum and dad.” Robin scolded her brother.

“Okay, okay.” said Mart, put out. “What did Corm get you for your birthday, Rob?” he asked, tinkering with his phone.

Robin stilled. She’d been so preoccupied, so happy, that she hasn’t even noticed that Cormoran hasn’t gotten her anything.

Her brothers decided to stay instead of head out, with Nina sharing Robin’s bedroom upstairs.

“Oh!” said Nina, stopping in her tracks as she opened Robin’s bedroom door. “I think I found Corm’s gift, Rob.”

“What?” Robin asked. She peered over Nina’s shoulders and saw a big red bow on the headboard of a completely new bed.

There was a card on the nightstand that used to have her stained blood. Someone had scrubbed it.

The card had a robin on it perched on a twig with tiny white flowers. It was inexplicably wearing pearls around its neck. There was also the word ‘happiness’ printed on it.

Robin opened the card, feeling her knees wobble a little with excitement.

 

> R—
> 
> From our old friend Catullus:
> 
> da mi basia mille, deinde centum,
> 
> _(Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred)_
> 
> dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,
> 
> _(Then another thousand, then a second hundred)_
> 
> deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum
> 
> _(Then another thousand, then a hundred)_
> 
> Sweet dreams.
> 
> Happy birthday!
> 
> C x

 

She pressed the card to her chest, feeling like she was walking on air.

“Will you drive me to Cormoran’s, Nina?” she asked her sister-in-law a little crazily, already packing a bag.

“Er, okay— did he really buy you the bed?” Nina asked, surprised and bewildered.

They were back downstairs in record time, waking up her brothers and talking them into getting in the Land Rover.

“He bought you a _bed_?” Mart exclaimed when they were all in the car. He made a gagging sound. “What did he do with the old one— no, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know!”

“Don’t be a jerk.” Robin retorted. “It was just old and… creaky.”

“Fuck Rob! I’m not nearly drunk enough for this conversation!”

“You bloody asked!”

Jonathan was snoring loudly in the back seat. Stephen, who was huge, insisted on sitting on the passenger’s seat with Robin next to Nina. He was squishing Robin against the door and she was trying to wiggle for more room.

Her brothers were impossible, but she was having fun, too. She missed them terribly, especially these sorts of adventures they get up to sneaking out at night to meet friends in watering holes. Whatever she feels for them at any given moment, they were always her favourite friends.

“Rob, I have to ask—” Stephen started. She was agitated that he was sitting so comfortably while she was still wiggling for more space for her shoulders. “Do you know what you’re doing right now?”

“I’m _trying_ not to get squished, you humungous lump!” she shoved.

Stephen rolled his eyes, and thankfully shifted a little. “I’m serious. Adult to adult, Robin. You have my pregnant wife driving this metal death trap through London at one in the morning to go see your boyfriend.”

“What’s my being pregnant got to do with it?” Nina retorted. She was driving the Land Rover jerkily as she was not used to it.

“Don’t be a bore, Pen! Rob’s finally getting interesting—”

“Shut the fuck up, Mart!” Stephen whined. “Could you pull over for a sec, hon?” Stephen asked his wife.

“No!” Robin protested. “Keep driving, Nina. Please! Pen—” she used her brother’s childhood nickname now, too. It softens him up when Robin uses it, she knew. “I know how I look, okay? I know I’m a little nuts but I swear I’m not. I’m just…”

She thought about what she wanted to say. Drink and other emotions weren’t helping her rally her forces. She sighed.

“It hasn’t been easy, being me.” she said finally. “The things that have happened— and then marrying Matt. I needed safety _after_. And I got it from—from everybody. But then it started to go bad.”

“Safety?”

“Y-yeah. Like, you walked out on the business and dad and risked so much and it was terrifying and then it wasn’t, right? Well, this is kind of like that.”

“Cormoran makes you feel that?” his brother asked.

“N-not exactly, or not just him. It’s all of it. The job, finally getting away from—from Matt. Like I’m finally stepping out after dealing with the rape and then all the rest of it. Like I’m finally allowed to move past healing from it to living after the fact, d’you get what I mean?”

He did not look like he got it.

“Totally, totally.” Robin heard Martin absently, not really as involved in the conversation. Tinkering with his phone.

“But why are we driving you to Denmark Street right _now_ , Rob?” Stephen asked again. “Why are we going to Cormoran?”

“Because I want to be with him right now.”

Finally, Robin dug around in her drunken and exhausted brain and arrived at the simple and honest truth.

Stephen sighed, shaking his head. “You don’t have to fall in love with all of them, Rob. Jesus. You can just date and feel things out.”

She pouted, annoyed. “Well, that’s not really how my life is unfolding, Stephen. Different people live different lives.”

“I’m just worried about you, Rob. We all are.”

She could see the office building. Cormoran’s lights were already out. Nina finally pulled over. Robin opened the door, relishing the space it afforded her. Her brother caught her arm before she hopped out.

“Just be sure, okay? Just be absolutely sure, please.” Her brother, usually so stoic, looked at her almost pleadingly.

“What does that even mean?”

She closed the door to his unsmiling face, Mart waving to her, phone in his ear. She waved to her family and walked inside the building.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran woke up with a start, momentarily paralysed by an entire human body plopping on top of him.

“Robin?” he murmured rhetorically, blowing some of her hair that fell on his mouth.

She groaned in confirmation, wriggling as though to make herself comfortable when she chose to lay on him instead of the vast amount of space on his bed. She smelled strongly of alcohol.

“How’d you get here?” he asked her, gently sweeping her hair off her face and his. He could feel her breath against his neck. It tickled a little.

“Nins…” she groaned some more, fighting sleep to respond.

He had felt terrible coming back to his empty flat after dinner had gone so abysmally, but now that she was there, she felt as though everything on the entire planet suddenly slotted into place.

He imagined them in this tiny plank, the size of his bed, existing there together with nothing but open water for miles. He registered that they were both perhaps overcome—by the intensity surrounding them, by the sudden collision after years of keeping (forcing) painful professionalism because anything more would be too dangerous.

_Is that so terrible?_

He knew they had to calm down, to slow down in some way, but his overwhelmed self can’t seem to comprehend _why_. Why shouldn’t she have left her family to be with him? Why can’t he ask her permanent, irreversible questions? Why would that be stupid and reckless when he meant them and he knew, as he felt the beat of her heart on his chest, that she felt them too?

He felt crazed. Like he wanted to whisk her away on some cottage somewhere made of shells where all there was were the two of them. He wanted to wake her and tell her he loved her, whisper promises and vows he knew he would not break. He wanted to kiss her, fuck her, marry her, have children he didn’t even want with her. He imagined lassoing the very moon and carrying it like Atlas, laying it at her feet. Everything, _everything_.

As his overstretched mind raced and his tired body fell into a fitful sleep, his last thought had been, _this is Charlotte all over again_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Cormoran got her a gift!
> 
> I wanted some more Ellacott siblings shenanigans. I wish JKR would write more about both of their siblings!


	18. “Not very sexy, is it?”

 

 

 

Robin was hot.

Why was Cormoran’s skin so hot? Why isn’t there air in his usually drafty room?

She felt sweaty, his shirt that she put on was rucking up her body, the v-neck collar twisting unpleasantly by her neck.

God she was hot.

She writhed, and Cormoran shifted at her movement. She was acutely aware that she had his thigh between her legs. The sensation was not unpleasant. But she still felt hot and uncomfortable, yet somehow too drunk to realise maybe the answer was to get off of him.

Her inebriated mind, enflamed body rocked up experimentally. Better. Much, much better.

She kissed his hairy chest. Hands on his shoulder to push herself up somewhat, just to trail kisses elsewhere: on his pecs, a collar bone, his neck. He shifted at this, and she felt his thigh against her, making her swallow the soft moan forming on her dry throat.

She kissed his cheek, and kissed his mouth, the “Robin” he groaned consumed as her ministrations finally woke him up. She felt his hand grip her hip and she realised vaguely that she’d been gently rocking against his thigh this whole time. She chuckled, mouth on his, and then trailing down again. Neck. Collar. Chest. The firm muscle before his abdomen. He’s lost a fair amount of weight since they met. His torso was firm under her hand, under her mouth.

“Robin,” he repeated. She could hear the faint question and even warning. It only made her smile. Her fingers to his waistband.

He caught her hand. “C’mere.” he growled breathily, pulling her up next to him. _Okay_. Robin thought, draping her body again half over him and pressing soft quick kisses all over his face. She liked this. Liked how large he was to lay next to, like she’d never run out of him.

She was rocking against him again. Just a little bit. She really was very hot. Drinking too much made her this way. He was just laying there, arm around her, eyes closed, laughing a little at her kisses. She tugged at his shoulder, pulling at him. Getting him to move over her, but he wasn’t budging.

She was, well, _horny_ — but not enough to whine for it. Close, though, but not quite.

She bit gently at an earlobe and _pulled._

That got his attention, and he finally moved over her, pinning her to his large mattress, catching her mouth and kissing her deeply, noisily. The groan that came out of her throat was obscene, and she could feel him rocking against her. It was a stupid position, with thighs being all wrong. She tried to nudge for him to lift his large hip so she could spread a bit, and she’s clawing at his waistband again but he catches her fingers and pulls off her just to hover, looking at her face, resting on his elbows.

 _Ah crap._ He wanted to talk.

She arches and pants and tries to rub up at something but he has her well pinned. How inconvenient that she’s fallen for the one man in London with iron self-restraint. She could feel him too, and her drunken mind imagined that if she had a penis, it would probably be huge and hard and a little annoyed that it isn’t getting what it wants right now.

 

* * *

 

“If I had a penis it would be very, very huge and hard and annoyed right now.” Robin murmured, pouting.

“ _What?!”_ Cormoran asked, bewildered and thoroughly amused. She’d been murmuring since she woke him up with kisses was sure she didn’t know she was doing it.

“ _Corm_ ,” she whined, arching her body and pulling at him by the neck and then tugging at his shirt that she’s wearing, ruining the collar. _“Corm, corm, corm_.”

He kissed her, and her lips chased back at him when he pulled away.

If only she wasn’t clearly still drunk. He had been very pleased at where it was going a moment ago. He was curious. She’d never initiated before.

“It’s so _hot_!” she whined, tugging at her collar again. Her face was red and she was sweaty. He moved to get off her but she whined and pulled her back to him again.

“I thought you said it was hot!” he said, laughing, burrowing his face in her neck, very very glad she came to him that night after all.

She was pulling at her hem, trying to tug it off with effort. He could see she wasn’t wearing anything underneath and was so tempted to kiss at an exposed breast, and then she was shoving him off quite suddenly and ran out of the bedroom.

He grabbed his stick and followed her, finding her retching over the toilet. He leaned against the door to reach at her hair, holding it back for her. For the first time ever, he was glad his bathroom was small that he didn’t have to rest his weight on a single crutch as he tried to help her.

When she had flushed the toilet, he opened his medicine cabinet to hand her a brand new toothbrush. She looked at him. “You got this for me?” she asked, and he couldn’t fully read her expression, she still looked so nauseous. He shrugged.

He had, in fact, got it for her. Along with other ladies toiletries that were sitting next to his spare razors and soaps and such.

He stood against the doorframe watching her brush her teeth.

“Not very sexy, is it?” she joked as she rinsed her new toothbrush and put it in the cup next to his. He was struck with a sudden wave of joy that discomforted him. His attention came back to her when she tiptoed for a kiss near his mouth. She smelled minty fresh.

They laid back on his bed and she snuggled up next to him, smelling of toothpaste and no longer feeling as though she was a hundred degrees too hot. He heard her faint snoring, replaying again what he overheard in her drunken murmuring: _“Why’d I fall for the only man in London—oh just touch me already!”_

“Robin?” he called out into the darkness. She didn’t respond, didn’t move. Her light snoring hadn’t changed.

And though it felt inadequate to describe or explain the intensity of what he truly felt for her, he whispered it anyway: “I love you.”

 

* * *

 

Robin woke up to the sound of loud grinding.

She opened her eyes and it was morning and Cormoran was no longer in bed with her.

Her body felt heavy, like she’d been flattened by a boulder. She felt like shit.

She dragged herself out of bed and blearily walked into the other room. Cormoran’s back was to her, pouring a suspiciously thick and suspiciously red liquid from a blender into a clear glass.

He was already dressed for the day, that she wondered what time it was.

“Morning.” she sighed. Even her soft voice made her head throb. He turned to smile at her and she instantly felt better.

She took a seat on the dining table. He took the chair opposite hers, handing her the unnatural smoothie.

“What’s that?” she whined, already smelling it from a foot away.

“Nick’s hangover cure. Patent pending.”

“Does it work?” said Robin, eyeing it suspiciously.

“Oh yeah.” he said confidently.

She took a sip. It was horrendous. She felt her stomach gurgle immediately and heaved. He chuckled, taking a swig from her glass himself. That he drunk it so casually made her nearly want to hurl. He laughed again, presumably from the look on her face.

He took her hand and kissed the back of it, and she remembered the first time he did it a few years ago. It felt like a lifetime ago. It felt like two different people entirely, the Cormoran and Robin in that memory. She caressed his cheek. _How’d I get so lucky?_

“Why are you dressed so early?” she asked.

“I’m driving you back to your apartment.”

She scowled, pouting, not looking at him. She heard him sigh.

He rubbed his fingers on the back of her hand. “They’re driving back to Masham today, aren’t they? I think you should see them before they do.”

“Sorry about mum.” she still wasn’t looking at him, feeling upset all over again. She didn’t want to cry. It’s idiotic to feel like crying over something so silly. She had thought last night, defiantly, that she didn’t care whether they approved or not. It was her decision who she dated, what she did with her life. She’s not going to take Linda’s smothering anymore. She’s—

He’d moved the chair to be next to her, and put his arm around his shoulder.

“She was quite pleasant actually,” he said easily. She knew he was being glib. “I once had a very proper, very posh old woman throw a Jimmy Choo heel at my head.”

 

* * *

 

He was folding her actual clothes neatly on the bed when Robin walked back in again, wearing only a towel. She smiled at him.

“Better?” he asked.

“Much.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck again and pulled him for a kiss. “I forgot to thank you for my gift.” she said before kissing him again.

He could spend an eternity kissing her. If he could only get paid to do that, he’d switch careers in a heartbeat.

“Nick thought it was weird.” he said, finally, taking the chance to breathe.

“It’s definitely weird.” she smiled. “I love it, though.”

The word hung there for awhile, and he felt as though his heart had grown too big or his chest had shrunk too small. He kissed her again.

She seemed very content just moving her mouth against his like that. Lightly scratching at his stubble when he darts his tongue to hers. “You didn’t have to do that for me.” she said against his mouth. They seem to be in the world’s slowest, most amorous conversation.

He thought she was an excellent kisser from the first, and tried to be very grown up about wondering how skilled her mouth was at _other things_. “I did it for me too, a little bit.” he joked. She laughed against their faces still pressed together.

“Very inappropriate,” she said next. He could feel her fingers trailing down to his belt, tugging at him as she bent a knee to move further into the bed. “Giving your employees beds.”

He smiled at the joke, and allowed her to pull his belt strap loose from its buckle.

There was nothing stopping them from making love again this morning, or indeed the whole day. It was a tempting possibility, and her clear desire for it was a very good argument even though he knew it’s because she didn’t want to meet her parents.

She pulled away and tugged the towel loose in one swift motion.

_Fuck. In. Hell._

She looked incredible in daylight like that. And he pulled her back again to him, kissing her neck. She smelled of his shampoo. “God, Robin.” he groaned into her shoulder.

“Take off your clothes.” she whispered, a tantalising hint in her breathy whisper.

He groaned into her skin. “God, I want to. _Christ_.” he started, squeezing her bare arse in his hands. “But we’re late for breakfast.”

She twisted a little moodily and pushed him away, grabbing for her pants. It made him laugh.

They were soon at Earl’s Court, Cormoran pulling up the BMW. He had half a mind to tell her she can just come into work whenever (or not at all today if she wished) but he was smart enough to know that’s how to get Robin Ellacott very, very angry with you.

He didn’t want to go in, but she looked petrified when he didn’t seem like he was getting out of the car too.

Her family were already around the dining table. Martin and Jonathan were by the kitchen island, Jonathan’s head resting on the marbled countertop, hung over or actually asleep Cormoran wasn’t sure.

The air was thick with awkwardness as he walked in, Robin silently kissing her parents hello, urging Cormoran to take an empty seat next to Linda who didn’t look like her opinion has changed on him much.

For awhile, only the sounds of cutlery could be heard.

“Fucking hell,” Martin grumbled. “Guess what, mum?”

“Hm?” said Linda with faked pleasantry, although Cormoran appreciated that she passed him the toasts.

“Nina’s pregnant.”

The room erupted.

 

* * *

 

Her mother had been so happy about Nina being pregnant that she turned perfectly friendly, thawing almost immediately and asking both her and Robin about the business. She grew fascinated about the Elroy case, and was asking about the specifics with the missing vase, being an art history enthusiast.

“My sister had a vase that she thought was valuable,” Linda started. “Until we had it appraised and we found out it was bought at a Tesco’s.”

Cormoran chuckled heartily at the joke. Robin could tell it was partly with relief that her mother was now being so friendly.

She knew there would be some other reckoning to come. Nothing had changed since last night, nothing had been resolved. But with everything else going on, she basked in this temporary ceasefire.

“If only someone suggested we tell mum last night!” Martin joked as everyone went outside to see Robin and Cormoran off to work. This earned him an smack upside the head from Stephen. “But _no_ , we had to let those two get so dramatic!” he continued as he and his much larger brother tousled.

“See you, monkey.” her dad hugged her as he walked her to Cormoran’s car. “Come home for Christmas.”

“I will.” she promised.

“Bring him by. I’d like to get to know him better.”

“Really?” Robin asked her dad, swallowing a lump in her throat.

Her dad kissed her forehead.

She watched Linda talking to Cormoran from a distance. He was listening intently, and she looked serious. Still, her mother was always caring and polite and even gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“What was my mum telling you?” Robin asked as Cormoran got in the passenger’s seat.

“Told me to take care of you.”

“What did you say?”

“Always.” He winked.


	19. "Does this look right?"

 

 

 

“Thanks,” said Robin as Cormoran placed a fresh mug of tea on her desk. They’d been talking about the Elroy case, but he spotted the attacked woman’s reconstructed photo just beneath loose paper where she was drawing diagrams and doodles about the Elroy family.

He himself was convinced that there was nothing to be gleaned from that photo, seeing as it was likely inaccurate with the lack of results it provided the Met. Short of going to St. Bart’s to see the woman (a non-starter) and talk to Matthew (also a non-starter), her meeting (or was it a confrontation?) with one of Matthew’s women was their only move.

He felt very down about the position Matthew Cunliffe is putting Robin through. Fucked his friend on her bed, gave this woman enough information to track Robin down, won’t just sign the bloody divorce papers. Why can’t they just let him go down for this, again? He rubbed his hands roughly all over his face. _Because the tit deserves everything that’s coming to him, but not this._

No one deserves this.

“You know it _might_ be the butler,” said Robin, a smirk on the side of her beautiful mouth. “Didn’t the cook say he took out a personal loan lately? He could be desperate for the money. Means. Opportunity. Motive.”

Cormoran shook his head. “It’d be too long to fence something like that, and he’ll have to launder the money he makes from the sale so it doesn’t look suspicious.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have that much foresight,” Robin argued half-heartedly. He caught her staring at what he presumed was the photo again on her desk. “What’s Andy’s theory?”

He grinned. “The toddler shattered it and the woman—Ainsley—won’t admit to her child breaking a million-dollar vase.”

Robin didn’t look like it registered. Cormoran sighed. He knew in Robin’s mind Matthew’s case was the main mystery in her life, and as long as it is unsolved, it will take priority. “Have you heard from Sar—” he started, but Robin cut him off.

“Is this what she wore when she was attacked?” she asked, forgetting all pretence, pulling the photo out and turning it to face Cormoran.

“Yeah, I think so.”

The photo Robin had only came down to the shoulders, a visible strap of red and then bright pink right below it. His version, the one that was now her face in actuality, showed a bit more of her body and her outfit.

He pulled his copy of the photo out of his bag, comparing the straps of the original and the reconstruction to see if they matched. “Yeah, it’s what she was wearing. Strappy thing,” he gestured at his chest, feeling like a fool. “Like shoelaces. Pink bra.”

Robin looked confused. “C-can I see?”

He shut the folder containing the photo immediately. “No.” and then as if to cover up his immediate curtness, “What do you need to see the clothes for? Doesn’t look like it was touched. No evidence she was touched other than the head and face.”

She looked thoughtful. “Does it look right?” she finally asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What she’s wearing, does it look right to you?”

Cormoran was genuinely lost. He shrugged. “I dunno.”

She sat at her desk unmoving for awhile, not speaking either. “Let me see it.”

They looked at each other. She looked defiant and serious. Matter-of-fact. The ace detective he trusted and depended on. Her face was eloquent with a plea to treat him now as his partner.

Despite his instincts, he handed her the folder.

 

* * *

 

The image of this woman had been so warped in her mind that the actual shot—while horrible—no longer carried the frightening shock it roused in her. She was then able to see more details of it, like the strappy red dress that was a snug fit over ample breasts inside a hot pink bra.

It didn’t look right at all.

She thought it was odd that there was a visible bra strap clashing with the red strap of her dress, and with little to go on it seemed like every tiny detail was worth checking. As she stared harder at the woman’s clothes, she felt less skittish about facing human horror, and more exhilarated that she was doing her job.

A large hand loomed over the photo, but she tugged it out of the way before Cormoran could grab it. “I’m fine!” she said a little crossly. _Honestly_.

“Rob—“

“Has Vanessa seen this?” she asked. “Has _any woman_ seen this photo?” It was rhetorical, because Cormoran knew as much as she did, and because it was plain as day that no female has seen this woman right in the aftermath of her attack. Because otherwise they’d have known almost immediately, that she wasn’t wearing her own clothes at all.

“It’s either she changed out of her own clothes into this one, or someone changed her clothes for her, but _why_?” Robin asked out loud.

Cormoran was also thinking. “If she changed her clothes herself, it would have to be by mistake. You said it didn’t fit her?”

“Yeah, tight around the bust.” said Robin, referring back to the photo and feeling less anxious about it. “You don’t wear this kind of dress with her cup size.”

“Right. She wouldn’t be walking into the hotel looking like that, do you think?”

“Not unless she was wearing a coat. People would notice, people would remember. It doesn’t look right at all.” Robin insisted, enthralled despite herself. This, she thought, was her new normal. Poring over thrilling cases at work while keeping a very happy relationship. She could almost set aside the fact that this was about Matthew. Almost.

“If she changed out of her own clothes, it would’ve been because she was in a hurry, or under duress.” Cormoran said. “But why would there be clothes that aren’t her size at all around?”

Robin shrugged, baffled.

“Maybe a threesome? She dressed in haste for some reason and swapped dresses.”

Robin couldn’t suppress the “Ha!” that came out of her. “Then Matt definitely had nothing to do with it!”

Cormoran raised an eyebrow. She laughed. “Matt’s not really the type.”

It was Cormoran’s turn to snigger.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Robin asked, shrewd.

“Nothing.”

“No, really. He’s not very imaginative, Matt. Very mad at me when I’d suggest—”

“ _What?”_ Cormoran looked absolutely scandalised, eyes wide. She laughed, sitting next to him on the couch.

“Don’t get too excited. I meant when I’d suggest _anything_ new. He’s very handsome—” said Robin, resting her chin on his shoulder as Cormoran grunted at her words “but he kept coming back to that cow, Sarah Shadlock. He’s very safe, liked familiarity…”

Suddenly, she didn’t like this conversation anymore. Sometimes, she could distantly assess Matthew Cunliffe, how he’s painfully square and pompous and liked to be safe and secure. His choice of women would be those who already worshipped him. _Had I worshipped him_?

“Anyway,” she lifted her chin off his shoulder. “What kind of threesome involves acid?” she shuddered.

“Yeah,” Cormoran agreed. “The vitriol suggested premeditation. This might even suggest that too, if the attacker purposely dressed her in different clothes so she wouldn’t be recognisable. Although it doesn’t fit… that wouldn’t be because she’s pregnant?”

Robin wrinkled her nose. “Too soon for that, I think. Unless the attacker was a woman and she switched out her own clothes—”

Cormoran looked at her suddenly. “What?”

“That’s an idea,” he said, staring into her eyes. “It could be a woman! Don’t forget, the last time something similar happened, a woman had been behind it.”

“So women are more likely to ruin people’s faces like this?”

Cormoran’s face fell instantly. “I didn’t mean—”

She had been offended at the insinuation, although she understood that Cormoran wasn’t generalising per se. It’s not like he thought _she_ ’d be capable of something like this. _But why not a woman_?

“Hey,” he said, gentle, hand on her knee.

She shook her head. “But what would Matt’s motive be, if it was him? Something like this is personal or _serial_. No one else has been hurt like this. It couldn’t be random, or even a crime of passion. It was planned, and targeted.” she was working out her own thoughts now. “I think the secret to knowing who did it, is by knowing who she is.”

Robin turned back to Cormoran.

“I think we need to see her.”

_“Abso-fuckin-lutely not.”_

 

* * *

 

Robin’s deduction about the clothes were smart, and convincing. He would’ve probably wondered himself. In hindsight it didn’t look too right, but he doesn’t know anything about fashion. For all he knew, it was a hot new trend.

That the attacker might have changed the target’s clothes, and that it might have been a woman is a lead he knew Carver hasn’t thought about. He’d be far too enamoured with the possibility of pinning it on someone young, clean-cut, handsome, and even, the husband of the woman who caused Noel Brockbank to flee from under his nose. Someone else ended up getting all the press for his capture, Carver would not have liked that.

Despite telling her and himself that he wasn’t the sort to be forbidding, he told her point blank that neither of them were to go near the poor woman. It was one thing to try and use their resources to find out what the Met knew, but it was another thing entirely to snoop around a hospital.

There _has_ to be a line.

Of course, if it was someone he truly cared about, or someone even Robin truly cared about, these scruples will fly out the window. It’s easy for him to keep track of professionalism on this case. It’s Matthew Cunliffe’s neck on the line, and deep down he supposed he thought he deserved to get dinged up a bit.

He wondered how he could get a hold of the Malmaison’s CCTV videos, but the prospect of looking at every single person in and out to find anyone wearing that red dress was daunting. It could be under a coat, packed inside a suitcase. He was now not surprised that the Met turned up no hits, if all they had to go on was the dress.

He had another thought: the napkin bearing Matthew’s number. Wherever that red dress came from, whoever owned it, was the true possessor of the number. It could’ve been faked of course, but it was likely genuine. He didn’t press this line of investigation just yet. He had been surprised by Robin’s reaction when he thought it was a woman. But something about this crime felt female somehow.

He looked at Robin, beautiful, clear-faced, practically angelic. She could never do a fraction of what had been done to the woman attacked, but Cormoran knew that if Carver even so much starts suspecting that a woman is capable or involved somehow, he’d be coming after her next.

That cannot happen.

His phone buzzed.

“I’m downstairs. Don’t tell Rob. - Matthew.”

_What the flying fuck._

He recalled how Matthew looked yesterday, pale and a little sickly in a way that was plain he was going through something. Cormoran figured that bringing by flowers Matthew was reaching out, but Cormoran dismissed it as him trying once again to find an opening where he could berate or beg at Robin. But the man had also asked him something about missing people. He didn’t want to say more, but Cormoran knew the type, those who never believed in detective work until they found themselves in desperate need of it.

And Matthew Cunliffe was desperate.

There was something he needed to find badly enough that he was asking Cormoran, but not so much to risk going to other detectives. It wasn’t because their agency was the best he knew, it was because he couldn’t risk the embarrassment with strangers. Him and Matthew already loathed each other, what’s one more thing?

His curiosity pulled at him like a spoiled little boy carting a mother off to the sweets aisle. If he told Robin, she’d want to come. If she came, Matthew wouldn’t talk. If he didn’t tell Robin, he’d risk her anger.

“Tottenham in 15 mins.” Cormoran replied. _If this fucker costs me Robin, I’m going to turn him in myself._


	20. "So, are you going to do it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAM! Have another chapter!

 

 

 

Robin felt sick to her stomach at what she was about to do, and the thought of how angry Cormoran would be made her stop in her tracks.

“What’s wrong?” said her best mate Ali, who was still in town for the day and asked her serendipitously for lunch. She invited Cormoran, too, but he so generously encouraged them to enjoy themselves and said he’ll just grab a pint at the Tottenham instead.

“If you found out Ron did something you expressly told him not to do, would you leave him?” she asked her friend desperately.

“What, you mean like fuck someone else?”

“No. Not that. Something you’d been clear about that he isn’t allowed to do.”

Ali looked bewildered. “I haven’t told him he’s not allowed to do anything, except maybe play those goddamn bagpipes again,” she joked, and then quite immediately she was serious. “Is Cormoran telling you what you can and can’t do?”

She sounded incensed.

“No…”

Ali did not believe her. “Holy shit, Robin! No! No! Men can’t do that!”

“No! C’mon—” she tugged at her friend towards Tottenham Court Road station. She twisted for Robin to let go. “I fucking swear, Robin. If he’s controlling—”

“He isn’t controlling!” she tried, regretting her choice of words earlier now. She would have to be honest. “Okay. _Okay_.” Robin started. “There’s a case we’re working on, and he doesn’t want me to follow a certain lead.”

“Oh.” Ali was instantly mollified and they were walking to the tube now. “Because it’s dangerous?”

“Not exactly.” said Robin uneasily. “Well, not in like…”

“Getting knifed in an alley or nearly shot inside a boat?”

“Yeah, nothing like that.”

“So why doesn’t he want you to follow that lead?”

Robin sighed. “Because, well, it sort of set off my panic attack—but it won’t anymore!” she said swiftly, her friend was getting ready to protest. “I know it won’t because… trust me, it wont.” She wasn’t sure, but what can she say.

“And you’re worried if he finds out, he’ll leave you?”

“Yeah.” there was a pit in her stomach so huge, she felt as though it was going to swallow her whole from the inside.

“I mean, if it’s a work thing, I don’t see why he would.” Ali shrugged. “Church and State and shit.”

It didn’t make Robin feel any better, knowing she didn’t tell her friend the whole truth to be given any helpful advice.

“Remember the Mullens we acquired?” said Ali. “Fuckin’ told Ron not to sell it, but he did it anyway and we’re still together.” Robin knew Ali and her boyfriend owned a hip arts gallery and cafe in Berlin.

She smiled humourlessly. It didn’t feel quite the same.

“So, are you going to do it?” Ali asked after awhile. “This thing Cormoran doesn’t want you to do?”

They alighted at St. Paul’s station, and Robin could see a signage for St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

Matthew Cunliffe looked worse. His thin beard was visible now, and patchy. He had dark circles in his eyes as though he hadn’t been sleeping. He was also wearing a hoodie, something Cormoran has never seen him wear before. Miraculously, however, he was still drinking some shit hipster brand of ginger beer.

 _Fucking hell, Strike._ He chastised himself, knowing what he’s risking even going up to Matthew Cunliffe. Whatever happens in this conversation, Robin is going to be mad. If she did something rash and nonsensical like this, he’d be mad too.

Or will he? He’s quite hopelessly besotted, so really it’s anybody’s guess.

He wondered dimly how Matthew Cunliffe would feel if he found out his biggest fear had come to pass. Might not feel anything, come to think of it. He’s facing a serious assault charge and seemed like missing someone important enough to knock on Cormoran’s door for help.

“Matthew.” He grunted curtly as he took a seat on a chair. It was uncomfortable. He usually sat on the booth, but Matthew was on the booth and damn if he’d sit next to Matthew Cunliffe.

“Oh.” Matthew blinked up at him, as if surprised to see him there. “Would you like, ah—”

“What do you want?”

“Will you help me find somebody?”

“Who’s missing?”

He took out his phone, a sleek new iPhone 5. He pulled up a photo. Before Matthew turned the phone to him, he knew it would be a woman.

It was pretty Monica Andrada, dark hair still in a neat ponytail, wearing a modest black dress, standing next to Matthew in a suit.

“Her name’s Mo— Monica Andrada.” Matthew cleared his throat. “She’s my girlfriend.”

He stared at Matthew. He really is a prize cunt. He remembered Robin saying this young woman dated Martin, who seemed better suited for her with their youthful looks compared to Matthew, who looked his age.

“I haven’t heard from her since Friday.”

“Friday?” This piqued Cormoran’s interest.

“We, ah, rowed that morning. Thought she’d cool off over the weekend, but she hasn’t been showing up to work, and her roommate couldn’t recall when she was last home as she’d been out of town herself.”

 _She’s missing alright_.

“You know with the attacked woman—”

“I had nothing to do with that!” he said, cutting Cormoran off. “Someone’s fitting me up!”

“Who would fit you up?”

“Fuck if I know, but I didn’t do it!” Matthew, who had been subdued then, was suddenly fired up. “Is that what you two do? Laugh about me and the shamble of shit Robin left me in?”

Cormoran stood up, knuckles in his pockets to keep from punching Cunliffe’s face. _This was a fucking mistake_ , he thought.

“Cormoran, wait!” he called out. Cormoran stopped in his tracks, bending over the table to glare at Matthew. The younger man cowered.

“If you so much as touch Robin again,” he snarled, hands tight in a fist in his coat, teeth grinding painfully with the effort of not shouting at him. “I will punch you so hard, your nose will cave in. Got that?”

 

* * *

 

“What the fuck, Robin? Is this even legal?” Ali whispered as she kept up with Robin’s quick strides.

“Yes it’s legal, people can walk in and out of hospitals.”

“Yeah, if they’re hurt! Or visiting someone who’s hurt!” Ali whispered urgently in her ear.

“I’m hurt, aren’t I?” said Robin, pointing at her tiny bandage, grateful for the first time to have it. “Will you stop fidgeting? You’ll stick out if they play it back.”

“Play what back?”

“The CCTV! Relax and act like you belong.”

They go inside the elevator, and Robin even smiled at the kind nurse in scrubs who smiled back.

The elevator opens and a bunch of people walk in including, to Robin’s chagrin, Nick.

She ducked behind Ali. “I know that guy,” she whispered. Fortunately, Nick was wearing headphones. “Yeah, I know!” said Ali. “We met last night!”

“Oh shit.” Robin twisted her friend so she was facing Robin. She cupped her friend’s neck and Ali looked bewildered. “Oh yeah, this doesn’t look suspicious at all, two lesbians making out in a hospital elevator!”

“Shhh!” Robin whispered, and thankfully Nick got out before they did. “Okay, he’s gone.”

“Are you sure you’re a detective?” Robin gave her friend a look. She mildly contemplated that Ali was the wrong deputy for this mission. If it had been her other friend Lily or even her cousin Harriet with her, they’d have a laugh.

Although Ali’s neurotic behaviour was helping her focus. She knew they needed to get in and get out as quickly as possible. It wasn’t a fun misadventure to recount with other friends over drinks.

They found the ICU, which was empty. She saw a plainclothes guy outside of one room and deduced it was probably where the woman was staying.

“Okay, can you lure that guy out of there?”

 _“What?_ ” said Ali, looking at her like she was insane.

“I dunno, just tell him you need the loo or you’re turned around or something. I just need to slip in.”

“ _Robin!”_ Ali exclaimed, petrified by the idea.

“You’re a theater major, what did you learn?” Robin urged.

“That universities have little regard for their students?” Ali babbled. Robin rolled her eyes. She held her friend by the wrist. “Ali, I wouldn’t be doing this if it isn’t important.” she said seriously. “This isn’t a game. A woman is lying in there very badly hurt and Cormoran and I are trying our best to find who it is that did it. I need your help right now, can you help me?”

They stared at each other for a moment and then she sighed. “Give me a name.”

“What?”

“A cop’s name. Something this plainclothes dude will recognise.”

“Roy Carver. That’s the lead on the case.”

She watched as Ali walked up to the plainclothes guy. She could hear her faintly say that “Carver’s downstairs, wants a word.” in an affected accent Robin mildly hoped was not inspired by hers. The police asked who she was and she shrugged. “He just told me to tell you to go see him.”

Carver was just enough of an arsehole for Ali’s little skit to be plausible. The plainclothes guy scarpered, with Ali following right behind. She gave Robin a thumbs up as they walked past—the officer not noticing her— and she ran into the room.

 _What the fuck am I doing_?

The plan was to see. Just see if there was anything that would jump out. Something telling, like a scar or a mole or an indicator of hair color, maybe an indent of a wedding ring. Literally anything to go on.

When Robin finally saw her, she felt so profoundly sad, she could cry.

Half of her face was still bandaged. Her lip was still swollen, there was a cut under one of her eyes, the tubing that was helping her breathe was skewing her face even more.

Earlier’s adventure, her matter-of-fact excitement for the job, even the possibility of risking her new relationship all seemed to pale in comparison to what this woman was going through, what she would go through her entire life.

Robin was moved, then, to walk up to her. She sympathised with this woman, felt immensely for her. She had been through something similar, but she knew it was not even close. Robin would bear her scars all her life, but this woman would have to lead her life with hers.

She held her hand. Her palm was soft and smooth, her nude manicure barely chipped though it has grown.

She wanted to check for ring marks, any marks but the woman had gripped her hand. Tight. Hard. As though she was poring all of her strength to squeezing Robin’s hand. She looked at her face to tell her to let go, and her eyes had opened and she was petrified, mewling, clawing for the tube to disappear away from her throat.

Robin yanked her hand, finally twisting it free and bolted. “Nurse! Nurse!” she yelled into the empty corridor. “Oh my god!”

She bumped into a large orderly and bounced a little as they collided. He caught her arm before she skidded and she gasped. “She’s awake!” she exclaimed, all syllables fighting to come out of her mouth all at once. “Room 307! She’s awake!”

She ran past the bewildered orderly, past the actual nurse who reprimanded her movements and frantically pressed for the elevator doors. Too slow. She pushed open the stairwell and started running down, down, clasping her phone to call Cormoran.

But he was already calling.

“Cormoran!”

“Where are you?” he said, voice urgent.

“It’s Sarah! Cormoran, the woman! It’s Sarah!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Theories? ;)
> 
> Seriously. Thank you thank you all so much for the comments. They just rev up the fire, you know? It's kind of why I'm cranking them out so quickly. 
> 
> Plus writing Cormoran and Robin as lovers is SO MUCH fun!!! I love these two lovesick goobers so much lmao.


	21. "You think he did it on purpose?"

 

 

 

If Cormoran Strike weren’t so lost in thought, he would have noticed Matthew Cunliffe zip out of the Tottenham and walk up to a handsome black Audi parked right up front. He would have noticed that Matthew was wobbly, that he had scratched his own pristine car near the keyhole, he was so drunk. He would have seen—and stopped him from—getting behind the wheel, stomping on the gas, and ramming his car promptly into a lamp post a few meters away.

The crash had been horrifying. A woman, who had jumped out of the way in time had shrieked. Cormoran, along with others walking in the area sped towards the scene. The bystanders stopped a few feet away, curiously looking into the crashed vehicle. Only Cormoran hobbled up to the driver’s side and saw that pretty Matthew Cunliffe was unconscious and had a gash on the side of his head.

“Jesus fuck!” Cormoran yelled, opening the door and catching the man as he fell limply into Cormoran’s arms. He heaved him out, and laid him on the pavement. “You! Blue shirt! Call an ambulance!” he bellowed, and the startled bystander scrambled for his phone.

Matthew was just knocked out, he could tell. Although he doesn’t put it entirely past this arsehole to die in his arms just to keep Cormoran away from Robin.

He called her. No answer. _Shit_.

He tried and kept trying. She might have put it on silent, engrossed with her conversation with her friend.

The ambulance arrived in record time, and the paramedics also helped Cormoran up for he was sitting on the curb with Matthew’s unconscious body. He took the man’s arm and pulled himself up, just managing not to cause both of them to unbalance at the weight of him.

“Are you hurt, sir?” the young paramedic asked.

“I’m fine.” he said gruffly, ungratefully shaking the paramedic who looked like he wanted to examine Cormoran too.

They wheeled Matthew up, and looked expectantly at Cormoran. They thought they knew each other, that they were friends somehow. “D’you know him, sir?” asked one of the paramedics.

Cormoran contemplated if he should get inside. He shook his head. The paramedics closed the door to his face and sped away.

 _Fucking fuck_.

Cormoran looked at the damage. The front of the car was totalled, the metal post was dinged. It was a miracle he only caused injury to himself.

It couldn’t have been over what Cormoran said. Not even Matthew Cunliffe was that paper-thin.

He waited until the police arrived. Two uniformed officers got off the car and he heard one of them speak to his walkie, “Call Wardle. It’s Strike.” before walking up to him.

Cormoran gave his statement to the male officer while his female partner talked to a few of the other witnesses. He told them that it was Matthew Cunliffe, that he didn’t see what happened but heard the crash. He told them that they met at the pub but he didn’t know he would purposely ram his car into a pole. He did say that Matthew had been drinking during their brief meeting and that Cormoran didn’t know he drove there. “I didn’t think he owned a car.”

“What the fuck!” was Wardle’s hello when he arrived in his own vehicle.

“Tell you on the way, Wardle. We need to get to University College Hospital.” said Cormoran, getting inside Wardle’s car before the other man could step out. The uniformed officer looked taken aback that the eyewitness he was talking to so unceremoniously walked away mid-conversation.

Cormoran repeated what he had told the uniformed officer, leaving out the part about the missing Monica Andrada.

“Jesus Christ! You think he did it on purpose?” asked Wardle.

 _Probably_. “Fuck if I know.”

“D’you think he did it on purpose? Guilt over what he did to that other woman?”

 _No, idiot_.

“Christ, and Carver was actually starting to entertain the possibility that it could be someone else.”

“Yeah?”

“They found the woman, the CCTV woman he fought with. They placed her at the Malmaison right around midnight Friday.”

“Carver talking to you is he?”

Wardle smirked. “Got a reporter sniffing around now, asking bang on questions. He’s worried it’ll get out. Can’t have an acid-thrower walking around free, not after he’s had five days to find the cunt and spent all this time fitting Cunliffe up with just a napkin for evidence.”

They were pulling up into University College Hospital. “It’s all-hands-on-deck now.” said Wardle as he pulled on the hand break. “Where’s Robin?”

Cormoran tried phoning her again. She answered on the third ring. “Cormoran!” she exclaimed, sounding out of breath like she’d been running.

Cormoran sat up, “Where are you?” he said urgently.

“It’s Sarah! Cormoran, the woman! It’s Sarah!” said her frantic voice.

“What do you mean? Which woman?” Cormoran asked, keenly aware of Wardle staring at him, probably able to hear Robin’s side of the conversation, she was speaking so loudly.

Cormoran pushed open the door to step out.

“The injured woman. It’s Sarah! I’m sure of it! Oh!”

“Where are you?”

“St. Bart’s—”

“ _St. Bart’s!_ ” he bellowed, furious.

“Listen!” Robin pleaded. “We need to tell Carver, or Wardle. Anybody. It’s Sarah, Cormoran! I’m heading back to the office now—”

“No!” Cormoran interrupted her. Cormoran took in his surroundings, the staid facade of the hospital mocking him with its calm when it contained nothing but calamity. _Fuck._ “Go to University College Hospital,” he said, containing his anger and frustration and worry. He wished they were together right now. “Matthew’s been in an accident.”

 

* * *

 

Robin hated herself.

There she was, sitting on a chair next to Matthew Cunliffe’s hospital bed and her primary wish—above anything else—was that Cormoran could sit next to her.

She didn’t ask him to be there. She knew the very worst thing to happen right now was if Matthew woke up and saw Cormoran Strike. The second very worst thing to happen might be him seeing _her_ , but that can’t be helped. They were still married, and he hadn’t updated his emergency contact.

She’d forgotten how handsome he was, how peaceful he could look. Their marriage had put a strain on both of them, morphing them into people who looked and acted vaguely like themselves—especially to each other. Looking at him right now, she was reminded of the version of him before the worst, when there was love more than resentment, when she knew for a fact he was the person she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

She felt the urge to hold his hand, but resisted. It was not her place. Not anymore.

 _Why did you do this, Matt?_ She asked him in her mind. _Why’d you drive drunk and crash your car?_

She didn’t even know he got a car.

It registered to her that this was a mystery, but unlike other mysteries, she couldn’t treat it with the same distant fascination. Even the woman’s ( _Sarah’s_ ) attack—hurt as she was, horrific as the circumstances were—she could treat matter-of-factly because it hadn’t been Matthew who was hurt. Matthew had been fine.

The call to his father was wrenching. He yelled and kept yelling “You did this!” at her through the phone that Cormoran had to yank it out of her shaky grip to hang it up.

His sister would be sent, and she will finally push her away, tell her to go, say mean things about how she had walked away from her husband, her marriage so easily. She had said those words to her before; accused her that she’s always had one foot out the door.

Robin’s thoughts drifted to Cormoran again. She found him at the waiting area with Wardle, and she felt instantly calmed when he took her in his arms briefly before a doctor called for her.

Cormoran would wait for her, would be there for her. Much as she wished he was here, she hoped Matt’s sister wouldn’t see him. She didn’t need that right now, not with her baby brother—as she always called him—so injured and unconscious on this hospital bed.

They had to take him to theater for internal bleeding. They had to pump his stomach when he arrived at the ER, he had already been so drunk.

 _“He’s going to be okay,”_ the surgeon told her kindly. She assumed they were together, that they were happily married, that her tears were uncomplicated grief. _“He’ll wake up in a couple of hours.”_

Matt’s eyes fluttered slowly, opening slowly as though he was just waking up from a peaceful sleep. His eyes immediately landed on her. She bit her fingernail as though to keep her hands occupied, keep them from reaching out to him. _You’re not allowed. You’re not allowed anymore_.

“Robin?” he croaked, face naked with vulnerability and relief.

He wept.

So did she.

 

* * *

 

It had been a long day.

Cormoran had to watch, stone-faced as Matthew Cunliffe’s sister yelled for Robin to get away. He could only hear swells of what she had been saying. Something about ‘misfortune’ and ‘mum’ and ‘bitch’. She had gestured to him standing outside a couple of times, and he hoped at whichever diety above that existed that this mad woman won’t attempt to lay a finger at Robin because he would most certainly start throwing punches himself.

Robin walked out shaken but resolute, and he followed her until they were in the parking lot and she had stopped abruptly to cry. He had held her then, and she clung onto him. Holding her by the shoulder, they walked to the driveway where Ali had a cab waiting. They would have to go to New Scotland Yard, he knew.

Cormoran watched from the taxi cab’s mirror how Robin laid her head on Ali’s shoulder as she cried and kept crying, her friend reassuringly telling her how Matt’s going to be fine and how she shouldn’t listen to Matthew’s sister who had always been a hateful bitch.

All three of them had been questioned, and he was miserable and nearly uncooperative, asking for Carver himself just so he wouldn’t be the one questioning Robin. The junior officer with him had been smug and he rallied his forces to get through it so he could just take her home already.

“Do you want to eat?” he asked her in the cab back to Earl’s Court. It felt as though he hasn’t spoken for days even though he’d been talking lengthily at New Scotland Yard.

“Let’s just go home.” she sighed, sad but no longer crying, leaning against his shoulder and he kissed her head, held her hands in his and watched as it started to rain.

She was already in bed when he came upstairs after paying the cabbie and filling a worried Anthony in on what happened that day. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he said, if he made sense or said things he shouldn’t have.

It was still early, but it felt like he’d been up for days. The new bed still had the big red bow, his card still perched on her bedside. It was like they’d come home after being gone for so long.

He wrapped her in his arms and she turned to face him, pulling him for a deep and feverish kiss. He let her, wrapping his arms tight around her, shifting to let her cradle him between her limbs. They were pressed so close together, he couldn’t see her too clearly. He could feel her everywhere, sad and scared and unmoored.

He was inside of her because she asked for him, and he was rocking them slowly, just as tired and just as sad and so very in love. She needed this proximity, this ineffable, incomparable closeness, he knew. She writhed and panted in his arms, stuttered and frustrated sobs of thinking too much and being too sad and not getting where she thought they needed to go. He held her and kept holding her, lips pressed to her cheeks damp with sweat and tears.

“It’s okay, baby.” he whispered gently, stilling his movements. “It’s okay. We can just sleep. Let’s just sleep.”


	22. "Shouldn't we be fighting?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys like fluff right?

 

 

 

Robin felt his kiss on her brow, just above her closed eye. And then on the bridge of her nose. Her cheek. They were wet and messy and noisy and reminded her a little bit of how Roundtree would greet her every time she went home to Masham.

He found her mouth and kissed her once. Twice. And she giggled as his arms constricted a little, still wrapped around her body. She lifted her leg a bit and felt him against her and he groaned mid-kiss somewhere beneath her ear.

He was _everywhere._ So large over her, so close that his hand on her felt like her hand, too. She liked being held like this, so completely sheltered and subsumed as though she lived inside of his skin.

She bit at a firm muscle that was closest to her mouth.

“Mmm,” he groaned, breath hot somewhere near her neck. “Good morning.”

He was writhing a little, not really grinding into her per se. More like basking in being just the right amount of warm, and just the right amount of comfortable. The weather was stormy outside, but the kind of stormy that made you want to stay in bed all day.

He was still leaving sloppy kisses all over her. She loved it, loved feeling that she is wanted, desired, that she’s making him want to slobber all over her this lazy Thursday morning.

She felt well rested, and she knew it was still early. Yesterday… she didn’t want to think about yesterday. Not yet.

“You feel incredible,” he murmured, trailing open-mouthed kisses on her upper chest. She definitely liked this, this infinite petting that seemed like it would last the whole day.

She wondered if they can just stay there like that for the foreseeable future.

She felt his lips on the crook of her neck and he breathed in deeply. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Okay.” Robin sighed, a hand wrapped around Cormoran’s back. She lifted the other to hold his head and caress his hair. He started trailing kisses up her arm.

“I’ll take you to Cornwall,” he spoke, as if directly delivering it to the skin of her shoulder. “Beautiful…” he mouthed at her jaw and she can’t be sure if he meant Cornwall or her. “So beautiful…” he kissed just the side of her mouth. “Lots of horses.” he said as he pressed his lips on hers.

She held him like that for awhile, kissing him as she wrapped her legs around him and locked her ankles together. He moaned against her mouth, tongue lunging deep, their kiss making wet and noisy sounds not even the heavy rain can mask.

She wanted him then, but he lifted himself off her a little and started finally to kiss down her body, murmuring all the places he would take her. “Meet my family…” he whispered, lips on the flesh of a breast. “Their goats…” he suckled and she felt her back arch, laughing suddenly as she plopped back down. She felt him smile somewhere against her stomach.

“Let’s go to Cornwall,” she babbled, writhing now at his touch, feeling his lips just below her bellybutton. She missed him on top of her, his wet kisses cooling everywhere on her skin. _Let’s go to Cornwall and never—_ “Oh!”

 

* * *

 

Filthy thoughts. Only filthy thoughts seemed to waft in Cormoran’s brain as Robin writhed under his mouth. He thought of feasts and medieval heroes and that pornographic scene from _Game of Thrones_ he saw once. He thought of food and drink and arousing smells and pure flesh and how looking up at the planes of her body is the best view in the world.

Her legs were shuddering now, and he could just see the arch of her as she moaned in obscene ecstasy. God, she was delicious. He could do this every day. Seriously. Seriously. Have her for breakfast or a midnight snack.

There was a breathy chuckle as her orgasm finally passed, and he felt her fingers tug at his hair. He kissed up her inner thighs slowly, wiping the wet on her skin. He imagined this kind of filth in those days this seemed like an impossibility—but this reality, the feel of her, the look of her in _actuality_ still bowls him over with gratitude and disbelief.

He crawled up next to her and she was on him in an instant, kissing the side of his mouth, kissing his jaw. Kissing his neck. His collar bone. His chest. Sharp quick kisses that felt like dull jabs making him chuckle breathily. He could feel her wet somewhere in his hip and he ran the edge of his fingers down her leg, intending to pull it, get her to straddle. To mount. This has been his only experience of her riding skills, but so far he had been impressed.

_Filthy. Filthy._

She kept kissing down, and he could feel her shimmy down his leg.

“Robin,” he breathed. “You don’t have to—” but a guttural moan escaped as he felt her mouth surrounding him. _Holy fuckin shit. Holy motherfuckin shit_. He was immediately breathless, grabbing for her pillow and groaning again into it just for some kind of release. It took all his willpower not to thrust up, or grab her hair, or climax immediately, or indeed yell ‘I love you’ as he felt her bob so perfectly like that.

“Oh!” he whimpered lamely, making the mistake of looking down. He saw the corners of her mouth twitch to a smile and he grabbed for the sheet to keep his hip from jerking upward. “Rob--”

She hummed. _Actually hummed_.

He saw her neatly tuck her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear and that was it.

“Up. Up.” He said urgently and she released him with a pop that he had to utter another oath as he pulled her up to lie next to him. He was in her in an instant, and he felt her limbs surrounding all of him, her arms pressing his head against her chest, her legs wrapped around him. Her breasts were bouncing with the force of his thrusts and he mouthed at whatever flesh he could reach and all control going, he felt himself explode.

“I fucking love you!” he sobbed into her shoulder, shuddering, quivering in her embrace.

She held tighter, arms around his neck, around his head. “I know, I know.” she said, panting, rocking. “Me too.”

 

* * *

 

His hair was a little wet when he walked back in her bedroom, paper bag between his teeth, balancing a plate of pork and beans and a mug of coffee in each hand. She giggled at the sight of him, wrapping her arms around his neck as he moved to put the mugs on the side table.

The rain was making her very lazy, along with other pleasant sensations.

Cormoran placed the bagels and the beans on her bed and kissed her, pushing them both down on the bed together.

“Corm—!” Robin exclaimed, stilling as the open plate bounced precariously on the mattress. He stilled too, and they both laughed, forehead pressed together.

“If we were on your old bed, the beans will be all over the sheet by now.” Cormoran joked, taking a seat by the foot of the bed and taking a bagel, getting crumbs everywhere.

Robin stretched her arms on her new headboard, as though to hug it somewhat. “Thank you, I really do like it. It isn’t expensive?”

“Nah.” said Cormoran shrugging. “Penny’s an interior decorator. I’m her kid’s godfather. Gave me a discount.” he bit into his bagel. More crumbs. Robin laughed. Matthew hated eating in bed, as if he did much of the hoovering.

The sight of Matt distraught and hurt on the hospital bed. _Don’t think about him right now, Robin, I beg you._

“How many godchildren do you have?” Robin asked partly to distract herself but failing spectacularly. She remembered she was Grace’s—Matthew’s niece—godmother, which reminded her of the look on his sister’s face, and she wondered if one can be fired from godmotherhood.

Cormoran shrugged, putting a generous heap of beans on a bagel and handing it to her. “A few. Dave’s kid, Rich Anstis’s kid, Greg Junior—Lucy’s. I dunno why they do it, I’d make a terrible father.”

Robin laughed. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Good.” Cormoran grinned.

They sat eating their breakfast for awhile, chatting about things that have nothing to do with the present and everything to do with themselves. Trivial, inconsequential things that Robin felt means the world to her now. The garden snake Cormoran begged his Aunt Joan for him to keep, the trip to Australia where Dave got bit by a shark and Cormoran lost his virginity, the Christmas Charlie Bristow gave him a football because Leda was too destitute for presents.

She would’ve wanted nothing more than to spend the rainy day in her bed talking, making out, making love, making messes, but the clock kept ticking and their blissful morning was slipping by. _Damn it._

 

* * *

 

What a sight they were.

They were in Robin’s bathtub stark naked, with her body luxuriating against his. They had cracked a window, and he was smoking, only the sound of rain and bathwater overflow braking the easy silence. It had been her suggestion, and he was powerless to resist—not that he tried. But this was supposed to be an attempt at getting ready for the day, instead he felt pretty content to just wrinkle into an old prune forever like this if it meant Robin would lay naked between his legs, too.

“Can I have a go?” she asked, and it took him a moment to realise she meant the cigarette.

He handed it to her. She took a drag and actually inhaled. He’s had women do this before, misguidedly fake a puff expecting him to find it erotic.

They were right, of course. Cormoran found it incredibly hot even when they faked it.

There was something so sensual about feeling the entirety of Robin against him, but only seeing her face in profile. Her face was red, and he could immediately tell the single puff warmed her all over. She squirmed a little against him, expelling a breathy chuckle. She could tell he was enjoying this, the evidence growing somewhere near the small of her back.

“Where did you learn how to smoke?”

“Dated a _bad boy_ in my teens.” she said, taking another drag. Cormoran wondered if it was doable to fuck like this in the tub. “I was fifteen, he was just a few months shy of eighteen. Had a motorcycle, always wore leathers.”

“Did you date John Travolta from _Grease_?” he joked.

“No,” she laughed. “But I think that’s the look he was going for. It’s a bit lame now when I think about it.”

“What’s his name?”

“Why? Are you going to beat him up?”

“Why? How’d you break up?”

He felt her shrug against him. “He went away to uni. He’s a special educations teacher now, moved to Edinburgh.”

He liked knowing things about her, liked that her life didn’t begin with Matthew Cunliffe. He kissed the top of her head, and he felt her sigh.

“Shouldn’t we be fighting?” she asked, moving a little as if to settle against him even more. They were flooding the tiny bathroom.

He supposed they should have, in hindsight. She had gone to St. Barts, he had met Matthew behind her back. “Do you want to fight?” Cormoran asked, chin on her head.

He watched as her delicate fingers scratched the bridge of her nose. “Maybe later.”

“Hm,” he sighed, too. “Let’s fight later.”

They stayed in the bathroom for a lot longer than they ought to have done, and would have stayed there still had it not been for Anthony knocking on the bathroom door.

“Hey guys?” he said from the other side of the door. “There’s someone downstairs looking for Robin.”

“Who is it?”

“Says her name’s Monica.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS. I welcome any and all Britpicking!!! Shoutout to Virginiana for pointing out something wrong about a hospital (I'll fix it!)


	23. "Don't you think I can take care of myself?"

 

 

 

Monica Bouchard was stunning.

She had pale skin with long dark hair and bright red lips that made Robin think of Gothic vampires. She had a body she would describe as enviably voluptuous, and even involuntarily sizing her up like this, Robin thought she likely wouldn’t wear the dress found on Sarah with large breasts like that.

Or maybe she would? She was wearing a tight black body-con dress now, with spaghetti strap sleeves and her cleavage showing. Robin recalled she was supposed to work at a staid office. Where was she going, dressed for the clubs at half past nine in the morning?

Monica wasn’t speaking either, possibly also assessing Robin herself.

_Fuck Matthew for putting her in this position._

Monica held her hand out first. For lack of a more appropriate response, Robin shook it.

“Sorry I’m at your house,” she said. She had an American accent. “But the cops are on my tail now and I don’t know why.”

“Officers have been to see you?” Robin asked, surprised. Why is she here at all then?

“My roommate said they came looking for me yesterday but I was out because we were supposed to talk.” said Monica. “I thought it was polite to show up since I was fucking your husband and all.”

Robin resisted the urge to ask her when the affair started. She was admittedly afraid of the answer. Anything after she walked out on him was fair game in her mind, but a moment before that would only hurt.

“I’m not really that kind of girl,” said Monica. “I wouldn’t have gone near him if I knew he was married.”

Somehow, even with scant data or evidence, Robin believed her.

“Did you send the police at my door?” Monica asked surprisingly calmly.

“No.” said Robin immediately.

She smiled humourlessly. “I haven’t been an adulterer before, so I don’t really know if that’s normal. Or if you’re the sort of person who’d sic the cops on a lady sleeping with your husband.”

“That isn’t me.”

“My roommate said she knew someone who faked a tip just to fuck up her cheating boyfriend.” Monica Bouchard sighed. “He’s very charming, Matty. Built like a damn Disney Prince. I thought he was the real deal.”

 _I thought he was the real deal, too_.

“How did you find out?” Robin asked.

Monica knotted her eyebrows. “I thought this part would have more screaming. You’re very calm for someone meeting your husband’s mistress. Is that a British thing?”

“I left Matthew months ago.”

Monica looked incredulous, not at Robin, but perhaps herself. “Fuck! He’s _such_ an asshole!”

 _Total asshole_. “What do you mean?” Robin asked.

“There was a woman who kept calling him all the time when we were together. Asking where he was, what he was doing. Told me it was a clingy ex-girlfriend. When I found out about you, I thought it _was_ you.”

“When was this?”

Monica shrugged. “The entire time I’ve known him. I feel a little better you’ve at least left him by then. We’ve only been going out a little over a month. Must have been some other woman he’s fucking.”

Robin felt an odd kinship with this woman who was blindsided by Matthew’s charm and later on, duplicity. They both thought they’ve met a good person, but it turns out he was fucking Sarah Shadlock on the side. Why couldn’t he have just saved the world’s women some grief and ran away with Sarah?

Maybe that was the whole point, the cheating.

“I guess I just wanted to meet you,” said Monica. “You seemed like a good person from your Facebook posts. Sorry if I caused any grief when I messaged you that Matthew was cheating.”

“You didn’t.” said Robin, true enough.

“I figured women should look after each other, you know? Like a little whisper network of asswipes we should avoid at all costs.”

Robin smiled timidly at this.

“If you didn’t call the cops on me, I guess I should go look for some other girl Matthew is cheating on me with.”

Monica moved to get up from the couch.

“Wait!” Robin said, stopping her. “It isn’t— it isn’t a woman calling the cops on you.”

Monica waited. Robin looked back to the kitchen where she knew Cormoran was listening. If he hadn’t come out, then she hasn’t done anything yet that she should not have.

“You rowed with Matthew Friday night, didn’t you?”

Monica was surprised. “You were there?”

“Could you tell me what you remember from that afternoon? Anything, everything.”

“Why?” Monica asked, looking suspicious for the first time.

Robin looked at the kitchen again. _Am I doing this right?_

“It’s Matt they’re after,” said Robin and she thought she heard a clearing of the throat coming from the direction of the kitchen. “For the divorce.” she lied, hoping this American would maybe think cops routinely got involved with divorce disputes.

“Did he hurt you?” she asked seriously.

“No!” Robin protested immediately. Monica was sharp. “Nothing like that, but I’m not at liberty to say.”

Monica seemed to believe this. “He came into a lot of money recently,” said Monica. Robin did not expect this. “He was kind of, you know, _normal_ , and then all of a sudden he pulls up with a brand-new Audi and there’s a new Rolex, and he moved into this swanky bachelor pad in Knightsbridge—”

“He’s paying rent?” Robin asked, surprised. Matthew told him their old landlord offered to put him up for a few months for free while he looked for a new place. She believed him because that landlord had a crush on Matt.

Monica looked like Robin asked a weird question. “Yeah. I heard him mention to one of his officemates that he pays _three thousand pounds_ a month for it, which I thought was stupid. So if he’s stiffing you alimony, he has a lot.”

Robin was mildly touched that this woman seemed to be on her side.

“How did you know he was married, Monica?” Robin asked, adding only to herself: _to me?_

“Scrubbed you out good off his Facebook, but there was one of him carrying his niece at your wedding. There was a comment from an old lady named Susan asking when he and Robin plan to have kids. Fell into a rabbit hole, ended up on your profile.”

Robin knew this all too well, falling into a rabbit hole of minutia about people’s lives on Facebook. She made a mental note to make like Cormoran and only use it for work. “Is that why you rowed with him last Friday?”

“Were you there?” Monica asked again.

“Yeah.” Robin lied.

“Does knowing about all the women help you with your divorce case?”

“Yes it does.” Robin lied again. This seemed like something Monica supported her on, and the best way to get her to give her information.

“I was planning to give him the benefit of the doubt. Like maybe _you_ were the asshole or I dunno--he’s going through something, but then he started to fucking ghost me so I fucking had it and confronted him at the Tavern.”

“How long had he been ghosting you?”

“Like a week? Oh my god!” Monica held her temples, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I got this crazy over mediocre dick. Holy shit!”

If it had been a different circumstance, Robin would have laughed.

“So you went to the Tavern,” Robin prodded. She felt her pulse quicken with excitement. They were getting somewhere. “Then what?”

Monica shrugged. “He was talking to Sarah—”

“You know Sarah?” Robin asked, surprised.

“Yeah.” said Monica as though it was an inconsequential thing to know Sarah Shadlock, as though she was a blonde non-entity that just liked hanging around Matt. “And then I started yelling at him, just asking why the fuck he didn’t tell me he was married, so he pulled me out of the Tavern and then dumped me.”

“Then he left?”

Monica shrugged. “I don’t fucking know where he went, _I_ left and got shit-faced with some friends.”

“Where did you go?”

“Why?” Monica asked, suspicious again.

There was no good reason for Robin to be asking this question, because it was directly Monica’s alibi for Sarah’s attack, but she felt as though this helpful woman needed to be warned.

She needed to make a decision.

“Were you with other people? Can they verify your whereabouts the whole of Friday night?”

“What?” Monica asked, confused and flabbergasted.

“We need to go, Robin, we’re late.” Cormoran was next to her all of a sudden. She knew she finally crossed a line.

“Why are you asking me about my Friday night?”

Monica had said, ‘I figured women should look out after each other’ and she was right. “Monica, if you’re questioned about what you were up to that Friday night—”

“Robin!” Cormoran reprimanded. Monica was looking alternately to her and Cormoran.

“If you’re questioned, tell them where you were. Make sure people can corroborate—”

“Jesus, Robin!”

“ _What?_ ” Monica was petrified now.

“It’s important that you have an alibi, Monica.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” said Cormoran, glaring at her, stepping between her and Monica Bouchard, who was tiptoeing to look over Cormoran’s wide shoulder to get a look at Robin again.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, craning her neck.

“You need to leave,” said Cormoran to Monica, and Robin could spot Anthony opening the front door. Monica, still bewildered, got the hint and left.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Cormoran asked, finally livid unlike the other times she knew he ought to have been but wasn’t. “You just tipped off the primary suspect!”

 

* * *

 

While Robin was talking to Matthew’s mistress (one of many, apparently), Cormoran finally checked his phone. He had been inundated with text messages and missed calls from contacts at the Met, his friends, and even one from his sister.

Wardle’s first text came somewhere before midnight: “It’s her.” followed by increasingly agitated queries as to why Cormoran wasn’t picking up his calls. Richard Anstis only sent him a curt message that they needed to talk (possibly about how he didn’t mention his personal relationship with Robin).

Vanessa’s inquiry was only about why Robin hasn’t been answering her phone. Ilsa’s message was the same, that she couldn’t get a hold of Robin, and some advice about Matthew’s inevitable DUI charge. Lucy’s message was merely, “Stick!!!” which he translated as ‘Penny Polworth told me about you and Robin and I cannot believe you didn’t tell me yourself.’

Neither women were being particularly quiet in the other room and he and Anthony could hear the conversation quite clearly. Cormoran liked Anthony. He was discreet, and he appreciated that he seemed a genuinely good friend to Robin.

He heard Robin say the word ‘verify’ and he nearly toppled over to run and stop her, but there seemed to be a bond that passed between her and this Monica Bouchard because he hadn’t been able to keep her from tipping off Monica that she needed an alibi. If Monica was the attacker, she now knew that the police were looking at _her_ as the suspect, and not the person she supposedly framed, which was Matthew.

Monica Bouchard was bad with means, opportunity, _and_ motive. She was shorter than both Robin and Sarah Shadlock, but her fuller figure could easily overpower Sarah. She also knew Sarah and revealed that she was shrewd with the way she found out Matthew was married. Despite her nonchalant acknowledgment that she knew Sarah and spotted her talking to Matthew before confronting him, it only meant that she knew the blonde and could easily have figured out Matthew was fucking her, too.

Cormoran told Robin that Wardle said Carver could place Monica Bouchard around the Malmaison late that evening. She also showed that she would go to lengths to track down Matthew and his women, as evidenced by showing up at Robin’s flat (and indeed, finding out where she was staying). She might have Robin fooled with her female solidarity bullshit, but for all they knew, it could’ve been a ploy to get Robin to let her guard down.

And then there was the other Monica, who was definitely missing. This Monica Bouchard could very well have taken Mo Andrada and is plotting to hurt Robin next. He did not like that she had been let into the house.

He had told Robin all this as the sky crackled and the rain poured and he drove them both back to Denmark Street, in a fit of genuine anger and frustation that she just can’t seem to keep herself safe, to know when a risk is worth taking or not. She had countered that she could’ve figured out it was Sarah Shadlock days ago if he hadn’t been so overprotective, and that he couldn’t be entirely blameless, meeting Matthew behind her back.

He retorted, unwisely, that Matthew asked for him to come alone and again, unwisely insinuated that if Robin had gone with him, Matt wouldn’t have said Mo Andrada was missing. She muttered that maybe he also wouldn’t have driven his car into a pole, which stung Cormoran so bad that he quite plainly told her that it seemed staring down the barrel of a gun was not enough for her to learn her lesson.

“Are you _ever_ going to let me live that down? Or are you going to bring it up with every mistake I make? We can’t all be Cormoran Strike!” she shouted in temper, which he thought was an unfair blow.

If he wasn’t so angry and scared for her and frustrated, his disbelief at how quickly this was escalating would’ve made him stop. But her unbelievable recklessness seemed to clear the haze of newness that had been clogging his brain for weeks.

“What if it’s Bouchard and she has Andrada? What if you’ve just killed her with that stunt you pulled--( _Shut the fuck up, Strike!_ He begged his stubborn mouth.) and what if she comes after you next?”

“Don’t you think I can take care of myself?”

“ _Fucking hell, Robin!”_ he hit the brakes a little too suddenly and his arms shot on instinct to keep her from lunging forward. She twisted, very very mad. Robin took off her seatbelt and got out of the car, not caring a jot about the rain.

“Robin!” Cormoran yelled after her. He watched as she disappeared into the street.

He had half a mind to leave his damn car in the middle of traffic and chase after her.

“Fuck!” he yelled, slapping his steering wheel.

He could just remember the feel of her enveloping him that morning. In a fit of passion he had told her he loved her, and she had said, _me too_.

_What have I done?_

_What. The. Fuck. Have. I. Done._


	24. "Has he confessed?"

 

 

 

The cold rain felt like someone had doused her with ice-cold water. She regretted her rashness immediately, and was nearly moved to get back in the car had it not been for cars honking at her to get off the street. So she ran, now more mad at herself than Cormoran and took shelter in the Tube.

She wanted to cry. He had been right. She had been reckless and unthinking and easily manipulated by everybody. What if Monica Bouchard played her perfectly? What if now she’s back to wherever it is she goes and is pouring acid all over Mo’s face?

It was only now that she was registering what Cormoran said about Matthew calling Mo his girlfriend. Some confused, angry, and grief-stricken part of her wondered if Matthew would come to a private detective if it was _her_ he couldn’t find. He had to have had feelings for Mo, if he was willing to put his tail between his legs and seek out the help of Cormoran, of all people.

He had driven his car into a lamppost, something Robin didn’t think Matthew would ever do. She knew he probably loved the car he totalled, and he’s never been that dramatic, and whatever Cormoran said to him couldn’t have been enough to drive him to do something like that. Maybe he had been that drunk and that distraught, a new low that he’s never achieved in his sheltered, privileged life.

“Robin!”

She was at University College Hospital without even realising, with only a vague understanding she needed to be there because the hospital had called Matthew Cunliffe’s wife to settle some things.

She looked up at the sound of her name and Matthew’s boss, Jemima, was smoking in a covered pathway blinking confusedly at her. She didn’t want to talk to Jemima, but her spot of path was the closest for Robin to get out of the rain.

The woman--in her late 30s, bony, plain if she didn’t dress so impeccably—pressed Robin against her chest like an alien with only a vague idea of how a hug works.

“You’re all wet!” said Jemima obviously.

Should she thank this boss of Matthew for being here? For visiting him at this calamitous time where he attempted to kill himself over something she didn’t quite understand? Robin _knew_ the rest of Matthew’s work buddies would be at his room now, possibly kidding around his bed as though he broke his leg from a rugby injury. Tom Turvey wouldn’t be there, which gave her very small comfort. Tom Turvey would be at New Scotland Yard being held because his fiance had, as Cormoran callously put it, ‘half her face melted off’.

Robin suddenly gasped.

Sarah Shadlock. That had been Sarah Shadlock. She told the officer Sarah’s penchant for nude nail polish and a scar on her wrist from an imperfectly erased tattoo on her wrist. She also said that Sarah had a large mole on her neck with a little hair sticking out of it. She didn’t see these markers yesterday, she didn’t have the time. In truth, she recognised Sarah purely from the look on her face.

It haunted Robin more than her scars— the look of abject terror and confusion and pain and plea for help. Her initial horror has now been overridden by sadness and worry. Pity, too. She was reminded of that saying, ‘wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy’ and thought this was a perfect example.

And she’s pregnant.

 _What if it’s Matthew’s baby?_ It was easier then not to care, when she had been so happy and content and grateful that she had Cormoran. Now, she felt embroiled in some seedy poorly-written soap opera full of cliches.

“What’s wrong darling?” Jemima asked, hand on her shoulder blinking sternly at her, like a mean step mum feigning concern for her rich husband’s upset child.

Robin shook her head. “Nothing.” said Robin and headed inside.

Matthew’s room wasn’t full of his equally pompous and equally dull workmates at all. There was only his sister, and they seemed to be arguing. She caught Robin and looked incredulous to find her, as though she were some street urchin that had no business being there, as opposed to being her brother’s still-legal spouse.

Robin walked off, not wanting another row. The one she had earlier still reverberated within her like an ache she felt all over her body. She remembered how they were just that morning, how he had sobbed his love for her as she held him in her arms.

_What have I done?_

Her feet seemed to have a mind of their own, as she found herself at the admin station. She was asked by the kind office attendant behind the glass window who she was, and then “How do you know the patient?” 

Because it was easiest, because it was the least complicated fact about her at that very moment, she said. “I’m Matthew Cunliffe’s wife.”

 

* * *

 

When Cormoran drove up his office, he had a plan. He was going to call Wardle and tell him about Mo Andrada being missing and tell him about Monica Bouchard going to Robin’s house that morning. She would need to be watched, preferably by plainclothes guys to keep her away from Robin.

His second plan was to find Robin and beg for her forgiveness. He imagined doing it under the rain, kneeling dramatically as he pressed his cheek to her abdomen soaking them both with rain and his sadness. He had been very wrong in insinuating that she might have caused Mo Andrada harm or even worse just by tipping Bouchard off. He didn’t know she was the killer!

He had been appalled that she thoughtlessly made an elementary mistake, telling Bouchard she needed an alibi and then Cormoran saw the woman as a threat, as Robin once again falling for a sympathetic and charming manipulator. He then imagined her once again helplessly stuck in a dingy and dark room, but this time beyond his knowledge and help.

It was hard to temper his overprotectiveness when his mind leapt to frightening possibilities. He had thought, distraught when she was being held at the barge, that there was no possible way he could be even more petrified for her safety or fear losing her. Until this togetherness, this romantic connection that they’ve discovered unlocked a new depth for his care and concern.

There was nothing on this planet or any planet that would keep him from protecting her.

He was about to drive past, deciding to go find Robin before anything else, when he spotted Wardle’s car parked in front of his building and Martin Ellacott was inside.

He parked at Crowdy’s space and walked up to the vehicle, peering. Martin didn’t look cuffed, but was definitely locked in. When Robin’s brother saw him, Martin typed on his phone and showed him the screen: “In trouble :(“ and then typed again, “Where’s Rob?”

Cormoran walked up to his office and saw Andy at Robin’s desk, doing some of the paperwork. He heard movement from the couch and Wardle made himself visible.

“Fucking finally!”

“Why have you got Martin Ellacott in your car?”

“You could’ve answered any of my dozen calls since last night, Strike… or were you otherwise occupied?”

He glared at the officer. He was not in the mood.

“An Evelyn Andrada filed a missing persons report on a Monica Andrada and gave us Martin Ellacott’s name. Picked him up at a friends’, gave us Robin’s name immediately and I figured I bring him here first.”

It would only be friendship that would cause Eric Wardle to be this considerate, and foolish.

“Know anything about a Monica Andrada going missing?” Wardle asked, and then “Where’s Robin?”

“Where are you on the Sarah Shadlock case?”

“Tom Turvey says he thought all along that Shadlock was in the States. When we asked why he didn’t find it odd that his fiance hasn’t been in contact with him, he claimed Shadlock often goes a few days without contact, says he’s used to it.”

“Did Carver believe him?”

Wardle sniggered. “Fuck no! He’s been arrested.” he said this as though it ought to have been obvious. “Once we knew who the woman was, and what this Tom Turvey looked like, we spotted him pretty easily at the Malmaison. He was the last person Sarah Shadlock was with. It’s him. It’s over.”

“What about the cigarette mark?” Cormoran asked, remembering the look on Robin’s face when she deduced it. “The ill-fitting dress?”

“What about her dress?” Wardle shrugged. “We got actual physical evidence, mate. Other than the CCTV footage, we got testimony from the concierge that they checked in together, and a bellhop who recognised them both walking down the 7th floor. His DNA was all over her, and we found out he’s known for awhile his fiance’s been cheating on him with Matthew Cunliffe.”

“And the napkin?”

“Planted it on her, didn’t he? It’s a revenge plot. A bit melodramatic, but he doesn’t strike me as too bright. Probably hoped Cunliffe would go down for it.”

“The vitriol? Has he confessed?”

“It’s only a matter of time for both, I reckon. He’s still pretending to be cut up over what he did to his own fiance but we’ve got a warrant to go look for the acid. Jesus fucking Christ could you imagine going through all that just to get back at your partner cheating? Walking out can’t be _too_ hard, he’s okay looking and it’s not like she’s Jennifer Lawrence.”

 _Too neat. Too easy_. But perhaps Cormoran has been working as a detective for too long that he’s easily dismissing the simplest answers. Their most high profile cases had been elaborate, even the Elroy case was unfolding complicatedly. Didn’t Robin say the secret to finding out who did this, was to find out who the woman was? Occam’s Razor: the simplest explanation is usually the truth.

“So,” said Wardle. “Monica Andrada.”

“Couldn’t you just have questioned Martin? Why’d you pick him up?”

Wardle smirked. “I would have, but he bolted when he saw me. Answered the door with a spliff in his hands, the idiot. Nothing major. Might have to book him if he’s had priors, though. Where’s the missus, Strike?”

“Out. Have you questioned the CCTV woman? The one Matthew rowed with?”

“We tried to get her testimony for Friday night, but we couldn’t find her yesterday. We’ll still knock on her door, though. She was at the Malmaison too that night. She went in the bar, but we couldn’t find her elsewhere. Anyway, why am I reporting to you? You’re not my fucking boss!” said Wardle as though realising something. “I won’t always make house calls, Strike. Answer your phone next time.”

He stood up and just before he exited, he turned back to Cormoran. “Lorelai’s back with Gordo, by the way.” said Wardle. “He’s a git, but he’ll probably treat her better than you did.”

“Uh-huh.” said Cormoran, not really caring. Gordo, he knew, was Lorelai’s boyfriend of five years, the one she split up with before getting together with him.

“Here’s hoping you’re not a total arsehole to Robin, eh? Strike & Ellacott Investigations?” said Wardle, pointing at the decal that had so pleased Robin, they shared their first kiss. “How’s that gonna work?”

Cormoran fought the urge to literally kick Wardle’s arse.

When he finally left, Andy spoke. “Yeah, that Tom guy didn’t do it.”

 

* * *

 

Robin stepped inside the warm office. Her teeth were chattering and she felt feverish. Today’s series of dumb mistakes now included stepping inside a hospital soaking wet. She felt as though she caught a bug.

“I was just about to ring you.” said Cormoran’s voice matter-of-factly. She felt his looming figure behind her. Robin turned around and he looked at her, concerned. “Hey,” he said gently, and he felt him put his overcoat over her shaking shoulders. “Let’s get you out of those clothes.”

He opened the office door and she stepped out, calmed now by his gentility and his reassuring hand guiding her up to his flat. She wanted to turn around and hug him, she loved him so much.

She headed straight for his bedroom and changed into something of his that was dry. She liked being dwarfed by his wooly grey sweater, it was warm and smelled like him.

She still felt shaky and uncertain. Maybe he won’t dump her at all, if he’s offered her care and warmth.

He was leaning against his kitchen counter, sipping tea. There was one mug laid on the table for her. She took it. The heat pleasantly prickled her cold hands.

“Sorry about this morning,” she started, sad and contrite. “I was wrong.”

He sighed and put his mug on the countertop and walked to her. He enveloped her in his arms and she felt like she could cry with relief. “I’m sorry, too.” he said into her hair. “It wasn’t right of me to say you might’ve caused Mo Andrada’s safety. It was thoughtless.”

She moved her arms to wrap them around his midsection. This, she thought, is what had died between her and Matthew. Somewhere in their relationship, neither of them cared enough to be sorry, and only wanted to be right.

“I’m sorry about what I said about Matthew. I didn’t mean it.” she said, pulling away to look at his face. She wanted to kiss him. “And I know I overstepped with Monica, but I just _know_ she had nothing to do with what happened to Sarah. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about St. Bart’s—”

“Were you fine after? You didn’t—?” he looked concerned, hands caressing her face.

She created a bit more distance between them. “Yeah. It was just… _sad_ , what happened to her.” she sighed, calmed now. “Poor Sarah.”

“Robin,” said Cormoran and she looked up at him. He looked grave. She felt her heart sink. “Why’d you run off like that?”

 

* * *

 

Cormoran recognised that Robin wouldn’t run away from him to run towards something that would hurt. That had been Charlotte’s finishing move with every argument. She would run to another man (richer, fitter) or another country (that he couldn’t afford). She’d perch herself drunk and wobbly on high ledges just to watch him pleading for her to get down.

It hurt him repeatedly, increasingly, that his gut reaction was always to chase after her unthinkingly, to literally prise her off other men, run through airports, talk her off ledges.

He loved Robin, but he realised too after having had space to think, that if this turns _Charlottian_ , he would not survive it. He mused, as he stared at Robin’s beatific face, that if she wished for her to be the death of him, he’d gladly accept it. But just in case there was reason to be had, he wanted the option.

“It was bad with Matt, in the end.” she said finally, head bowed, arms across her chest as though she wasn’t warm enough. He gripped the edge of the kitchen counter to fight the impulse to hug her again. “It was just easier to run away.”

He saw her face contort into sudden sadness, and looked up at him, face red and just about to cry. “Cormoran, I don’t think I’m okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried making them stay mad at each other for longer but they don’t wanna. 
> 
> So, did Tom do it? What happened to Monica Andrada? Why is Martin such a dumdum? Lmao.


	25. "Where's Cormoran?"

 

 

 

When the BMW pulled up to her apartment, Robin turned to Cormoran. “I’ll go pick up Martin at New Scotland Yard,” she said. “You go tail Mrs. Carlson.”

While she hoped it wasn’t so, she felt as though the agency was in a state of disarray. Neither of them had been working on actual paying cases much, or even facing any of the admin. They were both distracted by Matthew and each other, that they’ve had to rely on their subcontractors more than they usually did. Neither Andy nor Sam had complained, but Cormoran suggested he could maybe call Shanker to tail a client’s wife so he could be with her.

On top of other unwell feelings she was having, she was now feeling guilty.

Cormoran didn’t protest, but nodded. He leaned to kiss her and she met him halfway, caressing his cheek for another when he pulled away.

“You’re warm,” he said, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.

“I’m fine.” Robin lied. “Please, please just go to Mrs. Carlson.”

She exited the BMW, already feeling a headache as she stood up abruptly. She ran to her front door to mask how she felt a little wobbly, like she was about to be sick. She heard the car speed away only when she closed the front door.

As she dressed into warmer clothes, she thought how convenient it would be if they had clothes at each other’s places. And then she remembered how they were supposed to be putting the breaks a little bit, which only made her feel depressed.

That had been their conversation in the aftermath of apologies. She told him, honestly, that she underestimated the effect Matthew’s case and the divorce has had on her. Everything that’s been happening has been so overwhelming: the Chiswell case, moving to yet another flat, dealing with the divorce, Sarah’s attack, Matthew’s accident.

 _“And this?”_ Cormoran asked as they sat close together on his couch and he kissed her near her healing scar before she could answer. She had said no, desperately holding his face in her hands. He had smiled kindly at that. _“I’ve wanted this for so long,”_ he had said, fingers gentle on her cheek, _“but we can slow down.”_

She didn’t want to. If anything, she’d have them speed up. She imagined herself being perfectly happy in his attic flat, waking up in his arms, saving a ton on rent and petrol. She was damn near ready to marry him again if she wasn’t still bloody married to this arsehole who did nothing but trap and hurt her. But she also registered that this near-desperate, extreme want and longing for Cormoran might be tied to other near-desperate, extreme feelings she has for everything else going on.

It was ludicrous, she knew, that she wasn’t giving this new relationship room to breathe. And she understood that if she wanted them to have a proper go of it, wanted Cormoran to have the very best of her, a little space is sensible.

But this doesn’t mean she has to like it. She felt like throwing a tantrum, frustrated that she isn’t well enough, that Matthew had her at her best and that even now he’s keeping her from being young and free and happy.

Why did she have to marry him? Why did she have to stay? Why did she have to be raped? Why is her life a series of grave misfortunes that have life-long consequences? Why isn’t anything easy? Isn’t she a good person? Isn’t she _owed_ some sliver of happiness, some rest?

She felt it again, as though the air was getting too dense for her lungs to take in oxygen. Her head throbbed and her sights were fogging. She heard a crash as she stumbled into her full-length mirror, groping for a place to sit.

She wasn’t sure how long it took, but it passed, and she was only thankful no one had been there to notice.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran wanted this goddamn case over with.

This had been Hutchins’s. He found out from her driver he’s befriended that she was flown back for an ‘emergency meeting’. This emergency meeting was now unfolding unlike other meetings Cormoran has ever experienced, with Mrs. Carlson getting fucked against a window in broad daylight.

He felt a little ridiculous as he took photo after photo. There were far more important things going on in his life, but doing this himself felt oddly important. It told him that there’s still some semblance of compartmentalisation with work and personal life, that whatever the fuck else was going on, he can be trusted to do the job and do it well.

It was fortunate that Robin vetoed the Shanker idea in any case. He would’ve barged in and confronted the adulterers and he would have returned with no proof and an expectation of 500 quid regardless.

At least they now have photographic evidence. If only the bastard would show his face in the window, too.

“Why are my clients such shits?” he grumbled moodily as he bit into a burrito, long lenses still pointed at the window.

He wondered if Robin was okay. She felt warm when he left her. Is it silly to call, when they’ve only been apart for thirty minutes? _You’re supposed to be giving her space,_ his inner thought reprimanded him.

The fornication seemed to be over, or at least moved to a more private area of the apartment. He could leave, plausibly saying that he wasn’t sure how long Mrs. Carlson would stay in for her meeting, but he knew better. It’s an afternoon quickie. She’d be out soon enough.

He was rewarded fifteen minutes later when the woman emerged, looking clean and neat and tidy, and a handsome man with balding light hair walked her out.

 _Kiss her,_ he thought as he pointed the camera to them. _Fucking kiss her so we can all move on with our lives._

He kissed her and Cormoran caught it. “Gotcha!” he said triumphantly.

Cormoran took another bite of his burrito as he typed Hutchins a quick message: “Fucking her boss.” and then he drove off.

 

* * *

 

Robin really didn’t feel all that well. She looked pale and her headache seemed to have gotten worse. She was definitely running a fever and wished she took the tube instead of driving to New Scotland Yard.

The bright lights of the place didn’t make her feel any better, and she hoped she wouldn’t run into anyone who recognised her before she could find her brothers. She didn’t feel like being coddled by friendly faces nor sneered at by unfriendly ones. If she runs into Carver, she hoped she’d be left alone because she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to hold the vomit threatening to rise up at any moment.

“What’s the idiot done— what happened to you!”

Her brother Stephen came out of nowhere and was suddenly walking next to her. He did a double-take upon sight of her face.

“‘M fine.” she grumbled, twisting away from her brother who wanted to get a better look on her face.

“Are you sure?” he asked with that overbearing tone that she’s been hearing a lot of these days. “Where’s Cormoran?”

“Working. It’s through here.” said Robin, walking ahead of her brother to stop him from staring too closely at her. They arrived at a waiting area where Wardle was already chatting up a pretty female officer manning the receptions desk.

“If it isn’t Watson! Where’s Holmes?” said Wardle cheerfully upon sight of Robin. She forced a smile. “Working on a case.” she said as pleasantly as she could muster. The effort is making her want to throw up. “This is my older brother Stephen. Stephen, DI Eric Wardle.” The two men shook hands.

“I’d have come to you, Robin, but I don’t mind the visit.” said Wardle, leading her to his work station. A different officer that Robin only knew by face took Stephen to get his statement. “I was going to pick him up anyway.” said Robin, shooting for friendliness.

“It’s weird to have you here without Strike looming close by—”

“You’re going to ask me about Martin’s Tuesday night?” Robin interjected, definitely not in the mood for this banter.

Wardle smirked. “Sure, we can get right down to business.”

Robin told him about how she and his brothers were together the whole of Tuesday, about how Martin kept getting calls and messages he didn’t answer. She also directed Wardle to her sister-in-law, who was with them, and her parents, who will tell Wardle that Martin didn’t get to the capital until Monday.

“Got all that.” said Wardle casually. “He says you and your siblings took a late night roadtrip Tuesday?”

 _Crap._ “Yeah. Nina drove. She wasn’t drinking that night.”

“And where did you go?” Wardle would already know the answer. He’s talked to Martin and Jonathan before she got there. He just wanted her to say it.

“Denmark Street.” Robin sighed. Police inquiries respect no one’s privacy.

Wardle smirked, scribbling on his notes. “To your knowledge, they would have returned straight to your flat in Earl’s Court?”

“Yes.” said Robin confidently. “It was late. Nina would have wanted to sleep. They were all there when we joined my family for breakfast.”

“‘We’ as in… you and Strike?” Wardle prodded.

Robin wished she didn’t feel like shit, and that Wardle would stop being so nosey. But she supposed if he was being flippant, Martin wasn’t in too much trouble.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I think that’s all I need.” said Wardle, flipping his notepad to close. “Cheer up, Robin! Your bruv’s not in trouble, just wanted to see what he knows about this Mo Andrada.”

Robin gave him a perfunctory smile.

“Won’t even book him for the spliff. Consider it a belated birthday present.”

Martin looked as bad as Robin felt when she met her brothers in the waiting area and they all headed to the parking lot. Stephen, who Robin was expecting to give Martin an earful, was only holding him on the shoulder.

“You look like shit, Rob.” said her youngest brother Jonathan who put his arm around her shoulder. “And you’re boiling!”

“I’m fine.” she lied again.

“You’re not pregnant, are you?”

This stilled all three of her brothers, staring at her.

“No, idiots! Keep moving!”

Stephen was still looking at her suspiciously.

“Why would I be drinking if I was pregnant?” Robin retorted moodily. This finally made him continue walking again.

“Good,” said Jonathan. “I don’t want to be stuck with that arsehole Matthew forever.”

_Neither do I._

 

* * *

 

It was a quarter past 4pm when Cormoran got back to the office, having met Hutchins to debrief about the Carlson case. He intended to spend the rest of the work day doing tedious paperwork until 5pm and he can head to Earl’s Court and argue that boyfriends meet their girlfriends after work constantly, if Robin protested.

But Robin was already there. Hair in a pony tail, neatly dressed in a blouse she’s countlessly worn to work. She looked pale and wasn’t wearing any make-up, but Cormoran found her beautiful.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, heading straight for her to feel her forehead. Hot. Definitely a fever. “You’re sick.”

“I’m almost done with the filing. I’ll head home straight after.” she promised, categorising their growing nutter letters into neat piles.

Cormoran sat on the couch, watching her closely for a few minutes. What would it take for her to take it easy? It’s like she doubles down on work when she doesn’t feel well, or is told she couldn’t. Is it worth picking a fight to point this out again? She’ll definitely leave her if he suggests she go back to therapy.

“Martin okay?” he asked, because he needed to talk to her but didn’t want to say what he wanted to say.

“Yup. Didn’t even book him. Wardle called it a birthday present.”

She seemed ticked off at that, but Martin should thank his lucky stars his records are still clean.

She put down a pink envelope she was holding and looked at him. The last time she looked this bad, Cormoran mused, she had just broken up with Matthew that first time.

“I think you should talk to Matthew.”

Whatever Cormoran thought she was going to say, it wasn’t that.

“He’s not gonna talk to me, and he came to you about Mo. Mart’s in pieces about her being missing and Matt might know something, anything.”

Cormoran nodded. He had been thinking the same, too.

“And I think—”

Robin was cut off by urgent rapping on the glass pane of their door.

Cormoran could only make out outlines of people behind the glass but he could tell there were two of them, one rotund man in a suit and another in uniform.

Cormoran opened the door. It was Roy Carver.


	26. "Do you have a thing about feet?"

 

 

 

“No offer of tea, Miss Ellacott?” said Roy Carver as he sat on the farting couch without invitation. Cormoran had retreated to lean against her desk. She couldn’t see his face, but guessed he was furious.

The couch had farted when made to bear the weight of Roy Carver. The inspector chuckled at the sound. He was in a good mood, which made Robin feel all the more sick. What is he doing here?

“We’re all very busy, so I’ll cut to the chase, shall I?” he said, looking at both her and Cormoran.

He took out a white piece of paper from his coat pocket and unfolded it over the coffee table. Neither she nor Cormoran moved to look closer.

“That,” he said slowly. “Was what Sarah Shadlock wrote when I asked for her attacker.”

Robin looked at Cormoran, who didn’t move, so she didn’t move either.

Carver smirked. “You two think you’re so full of yourselves, aren’t you?” he taunted. “Thinking you’re a step ahead of the police. Well, not this time.”

He stood up and made for the door. “I know you did it, Miss Ellacott.” Carver smiled. “Behind that pretty, innocent facade is a cold, calculating bitch.”

Robin could see Cormoran clench. Carver noticed it, too and smirked. “You got _him_ fooled, but your act doesn’t work on me. I’m on to you.”

He left.

Robin bolted for the bathroom as she heard Cormoran curse so loud, the officers walking down the stairs might still be able to hear.

She felt his hand rub her back, squeeze her shoulders as she barfed. _Christ, what idiotic timing!_ So far she’s vomited twice around Cormoran, which she supposed must be a record of embarrassment for anyone who has ever been in a relationship.

He disappeared a moment before reappearing again, handing her a tiny bag she knew he got from her purse. She smiled and took out her toothbrush.

“D’you want me to take you home?” he asked, voice gentle.

Robin spat and nodded. He held her by the hand, grabbed for her things, helped her with her coat, and picked up the note Carver had left for them.

“It’s not—” he started, as he drove the Land Rover jerkily through the rain. Robin was feeling even more nauseous, wishing she insisted on driving it herself. Quite apart from Cormoran not being good with manual vehicles, this ‘metal death trap’ as her brother Stephen often called it,only really cooperates with an Ellacott on the wheel. “The vomiting, it isn’t…”

_Honestly._

What is it about men and sick that immediately makes them _go there_. If she wasn’t trying hard not to get sick right now, she’ll explain to him how it was far too soon—the thought was making her ears hot—and if it was Matthew’s, she’d likely be showing by now.

She retched and Cormoran handed her a plastic envelope.

“ _What?”_ she asked, laughing despite herself. The giggling was calming churning in her stomach.

“It’s the only plastic we have!”

They both started laughing. Robin felt her head throb as she shook.

“Feeling better?” Cormoran asked, hand on the gear shift.

“A little bit.” she said, truthfully. “The only _parasite_ inside of me is probably a bug or a virus.”

The only thing—the _only_ thing worse than being fit up for assault might be to find out she was also pregnant. She definitely wasn’t, but god if she was! The thought was horrifying. She didn’t want to have Matthew’s baby, or even _anyone’s_ baby… she thought about it before, because she was engaged and you think and talk about that stuff.

Matthew wanted two, and wanted them right away, talking about school districts and teaching his son rugby. She imagined herself utterly pregnant and utterly miserable, answering calls at the agency while Cormoran came and went as he pleased, doing work she wanted to be doing, too. Does she even want children? She wanted to throw up again.

They arrived at her flat and Cormoran held her close as he held an umbrella over them both. They said no sleepovers, but what if it was just actually sleep? She didn’t fancy sleeping in the nice bed he gave her all by herself.

They headed straight up to her room and as soon as Cormoran stepped in, he yanked her back.

“Ow!” she complained, as he rather bodily moved himself in front of her. His body was stiff and unmoving like a boulder, only his head was shifting around. She was trying to peek over his shoulder but she already felt wobbly that tiptoeing was quite out of the question.

“Stay there.” He whispered as he stepped into her bedroom, looked in her tiny walk-in closet, the bathroom, under the bed. Robin finally noticed her window was fully open and her once pristinely white chair was wet with rain and muddy with a footprint.

And then a crash of breaking glass, a bellow from Cormoran who had ducked and the speedy flight of a figure in all black flying like a ninja out of the room.

“Robin, no!” Cormoran yelled as Robin ran to the window to get a look. She saw the attacker fall on the grassy lawn and run ungainly down the street. She bolted for the door, evading Cormoran who was half pulling himself up and half trying to clasp to stop her.

She was too fast, her nausea and headache washed away by the rush of adrenaline. She was fast, whoever it was, and was hurt. She can catch up. She can pin the culprit down and it will be all over.

But she didn’t get quite that far, stopping midway down the stairs as she looked into their small living room. Anthony was unconscious on the carpet.

She ran to him instead, checking his pulse, checking his breathing. “Cormoran! Call an ambulance!” she yelled. She felt for the back of his head, his neck to see if there was bleeding, looked around the rest of him to check for wounds. There was a bump in his head and he was unconscious, but he didn’t look too harmed.

Cormoran joined her and Anthony soon enough. “Is he breathing?”

“He’s just knocked out.”

 

* * *

 

Anthony had come to and seemed fine when the ambulance arrived, but he was still wheeled out in a stretcher and a neck brace. They wanted to take Cormoran too, but he desisted. The flat was crawling with officers, with Robin giving Vanessa her statement. Cormoran was having shallow cuts treated, as he took a heavy full-length mirror to the face.

He hissed as the paramedic pulled a sizeable shard from his arm, and asked again if he doesn’t prefer to do this in the hospital. “It’s a flesh wound!” he sniped, agitated.

The attacker was lithe, wearing black jeans, a hoodie and a black ski mask. Robin was convinced it was female, and that she was wearing expensive Nikes: black, with white soles. Anthony said that he heard a noise from Robin’s room, checked it out, saw that her window was wide open and was knocked out as he took a step towards it. The officers said it had been the wooden breakfast tray they found shattered on Robin’s bedroom floor.

“It could be a burglary,” suggested a uniformed officer. “This is a nice flat, nice part of town, not nearly enough CCTV videos.”

 _The fuck it is._ Cormoran grumbled in his mind. Some mad person taking down every woman Matthew Cunliffe has ever touched and then Robin gets burgled the same week? There are true coincidences in the world, but this isn’t one of them.

“You can stay with me, if you need a place.” he heard Vanessa offer Robin. She smiled but declined the offer. “That’s alright.”

That polite offer rankled with Cormoran a little bit. Why would she think Robin needed a place? Does she not like him for her friend?

He moved to follow them as Vanessa escorted Robin upstairs, presumably to get things from her bedroom, but the paramedic stopped him. “Hold yer horses, big fella.” he said, dabbing ointment on a wound.

They needed to get moving. They needed to get to the bottom of this case. Immediately. _Now_. Whoever it was, they just attempted to have a go at Robin. They knew her well enough to know where she lived, where her room was, and that she would likely be home alone at 7pm.

Whoever it was didn’t seem to account for _him_ , however. That Robin would from now on be just as likely at his place than she would be at hers; that there was a 99% chance that she would be with _him_ , instead of alone and vulnerable to attack.

Well, whoever that fucker was, Cormoran wasn’t going to give him or her a proper shot.

This has got to end.

Robin walked down stairs with a holdall, Vanessa not far behind. She walked up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You okay?” she asked, kissing the top of her head, not caring that the place was crawling with people.

“I’ve had worse.” he smiled. He stood up, ignoring the paramedic’s protest that he wasn’t quite done yet, and put his arm over Robin’s shoulder. “Let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

Robin had her legs resting on Cormoran’s lap as they sat together on the couch on his flat. She was still feeling chilly—his place wasn’t that well insulated—but she was in one of his sweaters again and he had made her chicken soup, draped a blanket over her, and now currently massaging her feet.

Matthew, to her knowledge, has _never_ touched her feet. 

“Do your cuts hurt?” she asked, putting down her bowl of soup to take his bandaged arm and look at it. “D’you want me to kiss it better?” she joked. He grinned at that.

“No, they don’t hurt.” he said, back of the hand feeling her forehead again. “You’re still a little warm. Want some tea?”

The last time she had been sick, Matthew had been irritated and somehow blamed her job and low salary for her cold. _Why do I keep thinking about Matthew?_ _Stop thinking about Matthew_.

He extricated himself from her before she could answer, and she reached for the piece of paper Carver had left that Cormoran now left on his coffee table. She’d been looking at it all night, and still couldn’t decipher what it was supposed to mean.

 

 

It was an ‘R’, and a shaky ‘O’, then a ‘B’ (if it was a ‘B’) that looked like an ’S’ and a shaky ‘I’ that might also be an ’S’ or just a line before trailing off as though the writer had lost motor function towards the end.

“How’d he get ‘Robin’ from _this_?” Robin blinked at the scribble. “I think it says ‘Ross’ or something, or ‘Rosi’.”

As far as Robin knew, Matthew didn’t know anyone named ‘Ross’, or indeed a ‘Rosie’. He used to call _her_ ‘Rosie Posie’ as a pet name, but why would Sarah waste her energy writing that instead of something more direct. Had she been writing ‘Robin’? _Does she think I did this to her? Is she trying to inform, or warn?_

Cormoran laid a mug on the coffee table in front of her and resumed his position, lifting her legs to rest them on his lap again. “Carver just sees what he wants to see, the fucker. If Sarah _had_ been writing your name, it might not be a direct response to ‘who did this to you’. We don’t know how Carver interrogated her.”

“If he’s showing this to us at all, he knows it wouldn’t hold up in court.” said Cormoran, massaging her foot again. “Matthew’s number on her person was a solid lead, but he shouldn’t have run with just that. They stopped looking at her and instead looked at Matthew— and what did that lead to? Another missing woman, their primary suspect in the hospital, and still he’s intent on chasing after a false lead.”

“I thought they’ve arrested Tom?” Robin asked. “What’s he still looking at me for?”

“He must have a strong alibi, or something he said made them think he didn’t act alone. But likely Carver’s just a cunt. Still pissed about the Brockbank case.”

It had been a year or so since that name has been mentioned between them. It was a sore spot for her still, even after all this time. It no longer hurt, but he remembered the look of fury on his face when he fired her, and how quickly her life toppled into walking down the aisle towards Matthew.

He might have sensed it because he kissed the bridge of her foot, which made her chuckle. “Do you have a thing about feet?” she asked, amused. He kissed the spot again.

“No.” he said, playfully bitting her big toe. She squealed, yanking it away, and he had lunged over her and started kissing her jaw, neck, cheek as she laughed, playfully pushing him away.

He kissed her on the mouth and still laughing she kissed him back. “Ew,” she whined, remembering his mouth had just been on her toe. She keeps it clean and tidy and well-pedicured, but it was still vaguely gross. Not gross enough for her to stop him, or keep her from pulling him closer, or open her mouth to his tongue, or hold onto him as he lifted her and carried her to the bedroom.

They didn’t actually have sex, although she wanted to. They just laid on his giant bed making out until their fevered kissing slowed to languid, softer ones. She could tell he was tired, and they had said they were going to slow things down. He fell asleep with his bandaged arm against her waist and his face close to hers.

She traced her delicate fingers on his face, the small, soft lines of it, the twice- broken nose, his stubbly jaw. She thought him handsome, and not just because she loved him, but because he was. All she had to do was look at his face and feel safe and warm and loved.

“You have me, Corm.” she whispered as she planted a soft kiss on his sleeping mouth. “I’m yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with multimedia! Lmao.
> 
> Tell me, are y'all getting sick of this story because I'll wrap it up if you are.


	27. "How'd I get so lucky?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🥰🥰🥰

 

 

 

Cormoran’s right arm was numb. He opened his eyes to see Robin quite contentedly asleep on it. He smiled at her peaceful face and felt her forehead to check if she was still warm. _Normal_.

He pulled her closer, left hand gently sweeping the hair off her face, fingertips gently rubbing at her cheek. _I’ll take care of you_ , he thought as he kissed her so lightly on the lips. _I’ll always take care of you_.

This woke her up, and Cormoran felt his heart skip a beat as her blue-grey eyes found his dark ones, and she beamed seeing him so close. He was acutely aware that this may be the best part of his day. This quiet, drizzly morning with Robin safe and warm in his arms, looking at him with so much love it was almost overwhelming.

“Good morning,” she said, pressing her still smiling lips to him. He felt her arms around him as they embraced, bodies close under the sheets. He kissed her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, breathing her in. This is what he loved best about women—how they always smelled clean and sweet and pleasant. If he drowned just breathing her in, he’d consider it a life well-lived.

He could feel her rather jabby kisses on his shoulder, trailing up his neck, jaw, cheek. She was rocking for him to lie back as she felt her foot rubbing up his left leg, and a little over the skin of his stump. He raised an eyebrow at her and she only smirked, tongue to his ear, teeth nibbling at his earlobe.

He felt her hand between their pressed bodies, over his tenting boxer shorts. “What happened to ‘slowing down’?” he groaned into her neck as he felt her hands around him.

“The same thing that happened to ‘no sleepover’—” said Robin, kissing his mouth. “And ‘no telling’.” She kissed somewhere near his Adam’s apple. “Lie back.” she murmured, lips to his chest.

Cormoran chuckled at this. Was it possible that for all of Robin’s incredible virtues, she was also a rarity who actually _enjoyed_ giving blowjobs? He made himself laugh with that little thought, and it was a tempting proposition. He was even enjoying the feel of her clammy and dry hand, and whatever light squeezing she was currently doing.

He kissed her again, maintaining this side-by-side embrace he was so enjoying. “Lie back!” she whined against his mouth, and he laughed again. “Uh-uh.” he shook his head, groaning, lips still to her face.

She pulled away fast, her hand that was so gloriously elsewhere was now pushing at him slightly by the chest. She looked bewildered and disappointed. “What, _nothing_ at all?!”

Her face was so fucking adorable. He pulled her back to him, this time _his_ tongue in _her_ ear. “ _You_ lie back.”

She squealed and pulled away from him again, lying completely back, wiggling her shoulders playfully as she burrowed herself on the mattress, wide grin on her face. He laughed again. What a great day. What an incredibly great morning he was having. This is his life now. _She_ is his life now.

He pulled the covers off them both and she giggled at the sudden exposure. She was sexy even in her tight tank top and flowery knickers that he was amused to see had a bit of a run on the seam.

He often found her so beautiful that he sometimes missed out on appreciating her very sexy figure. Her breasts were quite large for her frame, full and round and he could just see the pinks of It beneath her thin white shirt. Her abdomen, he knew, was toned from those physical lessons she takes. Her legs were smooth and flaw free and soft and he would also list being suffocated by them as a good way to die, if he had the choice.

He splayed his large hand on her flat stomach, propping himself up by the elbow to see her better. He inched his fingers closer to her waistband, and he grinned at the hum of approval Robin was giving as she finally realised where this was going.

She was writhing and panting and arching before long, gripping at his arm as he worked his fingers. He was _very_ good at this, he would have her know. He had large hands and rough palms and fat fingers and knew exactly how to use them.

He kept himself at a distance even though he wanted to suck at her collarbone as she arched, or mouth at a nipple peeking from her top with all her jostling. He loved how she seemed to be trying hard not to make obscene noises. And yet the way she breathed was damn near pornographic.

She twisted his hand away and folded herself into a fetal position when she finally had enough. He wiped his fingers on her knickers, on the sheet as he moved closer to her. The room smelled of her and he wondered if it would ever go away (or if he ever wanted it to go away). He kissed up her exposed back. She turned to him as his kisses reached her shoulders. Her eyes were lidded, completely sated, and pressed her hand to his cheek.

He closed his eyes as he kissed her open palm, and when he opened them again the look of tenderness on her face took his breath away.

“How’d I get so lucky?” she whispered, fingers to his brow. He must have gasped because he certainly felt like gasping. _She_ thought _she_ was lucky? He imagined protesting, saying that _he_ was the lucky one, or make a self-deprecating joke about how he was old and overweight and one-legged and poor and broken in more ways than one.

Instead, he heard his deep voice say, “I love you, Robin.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure this doesn’t need stitching?” Robin asked as she gently cleaned a particularly long and deep gash on his arm. She’d squeezed it at some point in bed and it had bled, and he ill-advisedly got it wet in the shower. Men would do whatever they pleased as long as it didn’t directly cause their death.

“Nah.” said Cormoran, chin in his other hand, watching her work on his arm. “The paramedic didn’t seem to think so.”

Robin gave him a look. The paramedics yesterday were young and fresh-faced, and Cormoran would’ve so easily bullied them saying he didn’t need stitching and for them to hurry up.

“So much damn hair!” she said, dabbing the cotton ball lightly, unsure if she was getting any ointment in there at all, his arm hair was so thick.

“Tch!” said Cormoran impatiently. “Get in there, go on!” he prodded, and taking the bottle of antiseptic liquid and squeezing it over his wound.

“Cormoran!” Robin exclaimed, stunned. Her own hand was brown now, too.

“That’s what they do in field triage, just squirt the stuff over.” he said nonplussed, pressing the gauze over his own arm and grabbing for the medical tape, which Robin snatched before he could reach.

“Let me!” she retorted, holding his arm back in place and replacing the gauze now sodden with Betadine with a clean one before wrapping it up. “There.” she said, regarding her handiwork with a pleased look. “All done.”

“Thanks!” he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. She stood up to put her coat on as Cormoran wiped the brown liquid off his dining table.

They had breakfast at the cafe across the street, with Cormoran ordering a full English and Robin an extra fork. She could feel him stare at her as she stole a quartered toast. “What?” she asked complainingly. “Do you not share food?”

He was chewing his sausage thoughtfully, still watching her. “I share food just fine, but why aren’t you eating?”

She wasn’t very hungry, and still vaguely nauseous but really otherwise fine. “I just don’t feel like breakfast—oh _please_ dont!” she begged, heading him off before he could say anything overprotective that would trigger her annoyance. “I promise you, I’m fine. _I’m fine_.”

He turned back to his plate wordlessly and didn’t look as though he believed her. She was frankly getting very bored at people looking at her like she was a porcelain doll who was about to break. Sure, she wasn’t feeling a hundred percent (there’s a lot going on in her life just now) but it’s not as though she’s been invali—

She stopped herself even from thinking it, feeling thoroughly guilty.

Cormoran is such a _man_ , she thought inconsequentially. Large and burly and intimidating with his resting bitch face (she laughed at the thought). She rubbed her thumb in his cheek just to touch him and his expression softened. He’s very sturdy, like a baobab tree. He even has the hair for it.

But he’s also very gentle, and giving ( _Boy, is he giving!_ , she thought blushingly), and hilarious when he wants to be. Sweet, too. Very sweet. He’s not at all hard to fall for. In fact, she had to try very hard not to, as she was supposed to be engaged and then married and all. But even then…

She noticed that he’s been consciously leaving her half of everything on his plate. She smiled. _So sweet_. She reached out for his hand resting on the table and he held hers instantly.

This was decidedly _not_ slow, Robin thought, but she’d rather be honest than take a more prudent pace. “Babe?” she said, just testing it out. It didn’t feel too right, but then he grunted in acknowledgment and suddenly it fit him perfectly.

He looked up at her, expecting her to bring up something important or consequential or pertinent. Instead she said, “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three weeks and 2.5 years is a healthy enough time before I love you's, right? Lol.
> 
> This pure ~~filth~~ fluff of a chapter is dedicated to StrikeMeDown, Rosenoble9, Sne3646, Nessa_Val, Flanker27_UK, die_Frau, and AvaFay who left really sweet messages on the last chapter. 🥰
> 
> I didn’t mean to fish for compliments I swear lol. I was a little conscious that I was ~taking my time~ dangling this mystery so it’s good to know that I haven’t completely lost your attention hehe because I can write this forever. Lol.


	28. "Have you found her?"

 

 

 

Cormoran could list about a million things he’d rather do than drag his feet through University College Hospital. The dreaded confrontation (conversation?) hasn’t even happened yet, and already he felt as though his day was ruined. But if Robin was ever going to get her life back, getting this case solved was the way to do it.

When he arrived outside Matthew Cunliffe’s hospital door, he saw from just behind the blinds a female face pulling away. Dark hair, very thin, wearing a billowy grey jumpsuit. He thought she was vaguely familiar.

Cormoran watched her exit the room and looked wide-eyed at him, as though surprised. It was not an unusual response to him, he had to admit. He was at this point now a recognisable fixture in the metro for people who were paying attention. A ‘top detective’ and, less appreciated, a son of Jonny Rokeby.

She might also recognise him socially, of course. He realised then why she was familiar. They’d previously met at Robin and Matthew’s Deptford flat housewarming.

“You’re Cormoran Strike!” said the woman, bony face cracking to a smile that was surprising to see with her stark features. She extended her hand. He shook it. “Jemima, isn’t it?” he said pleasantly.

This made her smile wider, self-consciously tucking her unnaturally straight black hair behind her ear. “Christ, you remember!” she said, as though flattered. Of course he remembered. He ill-advisedly lent her his lighter and she pocketed it. You don’t forget that sort of atrocity. “Here visiting Matt?” she asked, this time a little confused.

She would likely know Matthew’s animosity towards Cormoran. Matthew struck him as a loud complainer.

“Just checking in.” he smiled, hopefully to keep her from asking any more nosey questions. She took a step forward and seemed to have stepped on her floor-length jumper, falling spectacularly as he lunged to catch her on instinct.

“Oh!” she said breathily, a little dramatically, as Cormoran helped her stand upright and independent of him again. She was still grinning unnaturally wide, as though this has the widest she has ever grinned. Cormoran considered himself irrevocably taken for as long as Robin would have him, but he was only human and was quite flattered at this lady’s attempts at overture.

“Thanks!” she said, and he felt her squeeze a bicep before letting go of his bracing hold.

She hissed. “Seemed to have twisted it!”

“You okay?” Cormoran asked, looking down her leg to see what had tangled, but she protested.

“Yes, yes. Thank you. You’re very chivalrous!” she tittered. “Nice seeing you again, Cormoran.” And she walked away, making a show of limping a little. Cormoran had to snigger, and was tempted to see her walk normally again just to catch her on the act, but he took one look at Matthew Cunliffe and felt all joy sucked out of him.

“Have you found her?” Matthew asked, looking at him with such hope in his eyes, it was like they didn’t have history. He only wanted to punch him more. _He’s already in the hospital, best place to injure him really._

“Her mum’s called the Met, Matthew. It’s their case now.”

Matthew hung his head, shaking it as though it was the very worst news he could ever hear. His shoulders were shaking and Cormoran realised he was crying. _Christ almighty!_ Was he supposed to placate him, now? Pat him on the back and reassure him that his girlfriend might still be found? Personally, Cormoran thought he’ll likely encounter young Mo Andrada floating at the Thames, but in deference also to Martin who cared for the young woman as well, he hoped he was wrong.

“It’s all my fault, Christ!” Matthew sobbed in his hands.

“What’s all your fault?” Cormoran asked curiously.

“I love her, I love her.” he bawled almost nonsensically. He looked so tragic, like a little boy who had lost his puppy. He invited pity, Matthew Cunliffe. Maybe that’s how he trapped Robin into marriage. “Oh god, why is this happening!”

“What do you think is happening?”

Matthew sniffled. “The woman, the injured woman. They showed me her face, told me I did it, but I could never— oh god!”

There was a low bench against the wall, and a plusher chair right next to Matthew’s bedside reserved for people who cared for him. Cormoran wondered how long he could stand there as he tried to get some usable information from this git he deeply despised. Where were these genuine (for Cormoran knew he wasn’t faking) tears of loss and remorse for Robin who adored him? Who loved him enough to marry him?

He was glad that he showed himself completely unsuitable for Robin, but he would never forgive the time he made her waste. Time they could’ve— he shoved these unhelpful thoughts aside. He had the rest of his life to make up for that.

Matthew looked up at him suddenly, eyes wide and blood shot and petrified. “Do you think it was Mo? The woman? _Oh god,_ who would do this to me?”

 _To you? Nothing’s happened to you that you didn’t do to yourself, fucker!_ Cormoran thought, but another overwhelming thought came to him: no one has told him it was Sarah Shadlock. Should he tell him? Cormoran relished the idea of hurting him just a little bit more, and if he wasn’t currently trying to get useful information out of him, he would not hesitate.

“It isn’t Monica Andrada,” Cormoran said. “The injured woman is Caucasian.”

This seemed to calm Matthew. “So you can still find her? She might not be hurt?”

 _Unless she’s the one behind all this, it’s likely she’s already dead._ “It’s not up to me to find her. The police are onto it.”

“But will you help? Show them up again? Cormoran, I’m begging you.”

Cormoran imagined Matthew Cunliffe’s dead body and spitting on his grave.

_People._

“I need the names of all the women you’ve had relations with, Matthew. Since the wedding.”

“No one.” the man said.

There was a tray table in front of him, Cormoran imagined bashing his pretty face against it. It had never been his tactic, even when he was an investigator with the SIB, but he knew cruder methods of pain that might not even be immediately visible.

Matthew sensed his disbelief because he next said, “I swear no one, just Sarah.”

He could be desperate enough to find this Mo Andrada to _not lie_. Powerless to make him tell absolute truths, Cormoran had no choice but to take it on face value.

“What about after Robin left you?” Cormoran enjoyed saying it, thinking gloriously about how she woke up in his bed and in his arms that very morning. Matthew had the decency to wince at that.

“I met Mo,” said Matthew. “And there were a couple of women, but they didn’t mean anything.”

“Did you stop sleeping with Sarah?”

“Does that matter?”

 _So, no._ For someone who claims to have fallen in love, he sure can’t keep it in his pants. “Who are the others, Matthew?”

He slumped. “Nobody. Just women. Just sex.”

“If you want anyone to find her Matthew, I need all their names.”

“Do you think one of them could have done this?” Matthew asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes.”

Matthew took out his phone, and seemed to grow frustrated with his scrawling. “Paula, Olivia... they’re just names. I never even saw them again.”

“What about Monica Bouchard?”

This made Matthew look at him. “How do you—”

“I’m not fucking around, Matthew. Lives are at stake now.”

Matthew looked petrified, the same feeling he himself felt knowing that one of those lives—though Matthew didn’t know it—now included Robin.

“We hung out a few times, but that’s over.”

“She seemed to think she’s your girlfriend.”

Matthew managed a smirk at that. “That slag? Never!”

Cormoran wondered if Bouchard was aware that Matthew thought so little of her. Matthew seemed to realise this too because he asked, “Do you think _she_ had anything to do with this?”

Cormoran didn’t answer.

_Places._

“You’ve been spotted hanging around The Viaduct Tavern in the last year.”

“Yeah, but just for drinks! To unwind with the boys, you know. I _swear_ I never picked anyone up there when I was—”

_Supposedly married?_

“It’s nowhere near your place of work, any of your flats.”

Matthew shrugged. “Just liked it there. What’s this got to do with Mo? I didn’t meet Mo there.”

“Where’d you meet her? When?”

He seemed to grow wistful at the memory. “Waitrose. Met her the morning after Robin left me. It was just chance, you know? We’ve known each other all our lives but I never really saw her as—” he seemed to realise he wasn’t talking to a friend and stopped abruptly.

“And you started dating while you picked up women at The Viaduct Tavern.” Cormoran asked, unable to mask his judgment.

He looked stricken. “Have you ever realised what you had only when you lost it?”

“No.” Cormoran said immediately, but that was a lie. He only realised how he had Robin when he thought she had been lost. _Is this arsehole looking for a decking? His attempt failed and now he’s goading me to finish the job!_

_Things._

“You ever write your number on napkins at The Viaduct?” Cormoran asked.

“Yeah, but I _swear_ I don’t know how that woman got my—”

“Did you give your number to anyone last Friday night?”

“Yeah, but she wasn’t the injured woman.” said Matthew confidently.

“How do you know for sure?”

“Because the woman I gave my number to was black.”

“You tell the police this?”

“Yeah, but they didn’t seem to care. Said I was probably too drunk to remember I had given it to a white woman, but I never. I wasn’t _that_ drunk at the Tavern. That happened later.”

At the Mango Tree, with Robin. Cormoran remembered. He could so easily wrap the blinds string around his neck.

“Could you describe the woman you gave the number to that night?”

“Tall, thin. Long straight hair down to her back, neat fringe. Looked like a young Naomi Campbell.”

Cormoran, who didn’t find it too pertinent to make notes at the start of this conversation, started scribbling in his notepad.

“Did you get her name? Did she give you her number, did she call?”

“We didn’t get to names.” said Matthew matter-of-fact. “Didn’t give me her number, didn’t call.”

“Do you know other people Mo Andrada might call, might go to other than work and home?”

Matthew slumped at this again. “No one,” he said. “Just Martin.”

 

* * *

 

Robin was feeling very productive. So far she had finished the last of the filing, collected a sizeable cheque from Carlson, had just finished conferring their latest discoveries with Harper Elroy, and was now on the way back to the office for lunch.

If only Sam Barclay didn’t attach himself to her hip the entire time.

He had the morning off, and insisted that he was going to get around on his own paperwork that morning, too. When she was about to go to Carlson’s office, he asked to be dropped off a nearby establishment he so happened to need to visit. When she was done, he was already by her car and claimed his great fortune that he doesn’t have to take the Tube back to the office. He then invited himself to her Elroy meeting, claiming wanting to see how his boss does work.

Robin was mildly amused, but mostly irritated. She knew Cormoran put Sam up to this, and was likely going to pay him out of pocket for babysitting duty. But she couldn’t think him overprotective on this case, because someone _had_ broken in her bedroom and hurt Cormoran to get to her. She wasn’t too rattled when Cormoran was with her, but when he left to meet with Matthew, she suddenly felt exposed.

Robin felt a little guilty that she felt like such a wuss without her boyfriend around, but reminded herself that it was only natural human reaction not to want to be alone in the aftermath of an invasion like that. She would have been grateful for the company of anybody, and would have felt a frisson of fear at the loss.

But it was still a poor use of Sam’s time, _even_ if he had actually done some paper work _and_ shadowed her pretty efficiently with Harper Elroy. She made a mental note of charging the agency for those hours, but cannot justify how Sam likely just loitered around while she was with Carlson.

But she also couldn’t shake how yesterday’s attacker was likely a woman. The intruder had been light on their feet, seemed to be fit or know parkour or something, knew to mostly land on their body as they jumped a storey down. If they were quick, they might find a bruise on the intruder’s arm or body or leg. The getaway wasn’t too sharp and Robin imagined being able to tackle them and quite literally unmask them.

She told Vanessa all of this, but so far nothing. Vanessa said the intruder must have been casing her apartment because she knew exactly where there were no CCTVs, and no hospitals in the area said a patient matched the injuries Robin described.

She was sure it wasn’t Monica Bouchard, though. The body didn’t look right. _Could it be Mo?_ Robin knew she took gymnastics lessons as a child, and she and Martin were addicted to crossfit when they were together. She was also lithe and thin, and could know where she lived. They were Facebook friends up until recently. But if it _was_ her, it only opened more questions than answers.


	29. "You seeing anyone?"

 

 

 

When Cormoran returned to Denmark Street, Robin was at her desk, typing and not acknowledging that he had entered the room.

She’s pissed about Sam, he knew.

He looked around and realised Robin was completely alone. He was feeling a little agitated now that she had sent him—

“He’s just gone down to buy lunch,” said Robin, still typing. “You can unclench.”

So he did, sitting on the edge of her table and plopping those potstickers he knew she liked on top of loose paper all over her desk. He peered at the screen and laughed out loud as he saw that she was just typing random strings of letters on a blank document.

She laughed too.

“That was actually quite thoughtful, asking Sam to be here.” she said, squeezing his hand. “He did some actual work today, so we can list a bit of his pay under the agency.”

He leaned to kiss the top of her head before climbing off his desk to wheel his ancient office chair out and they can eat together.

Robin was laying down the food he brought when he returned to the outer office. “Sam’s buying three sandwiches, and you’ve got enough food for three of _you_ in here!”

“That’s okay, we’re expecting company for lunch.”

“Is it two other Cormoran Strikes?” she joked, stuffing an entire pot sticker in her mouth. He liked that she was eating.

He started to tell her how meeting Matthew had gone when someone walked in the office.

“Martin!” Robin said, surprised.

“Hey, Rob. Corm.” he said, still sullen.

“I thought you’ve gone home!” said Robin, running from behind her desk to hug her brother.

He sighed. “Stayed with Jackie one more night, but— can I stay with you for a bit, Rob? I can’t go back home with Mo still missing.”

Robin looked at him.

“If you don’t mind sleeping in a camp bed on my flat upstairs, Martin.” Cormoran offered.

“Have you two moved in together?!” Martin’s eyes were suddenly glinting with mischief. Robin laughed. “No, there’s just some repairs being done at the Earl’s Court flat.” Robin lied easily.

“Oh.” Martin’s shoulder slumped, helping himself to a box of takeaway noodles.

“We need to—” Comoran started, but was interrupted by the door opening again.

“Shanker!” Robin exclaimed, excitedly giving Cormoran’s old pal a warm hug.

“Hey, Rob! These are for you,” he said, handing her a large bouquet of fresh sunflowers. He was smart about flowers, Shanker. Leda would teach him what women would want for whatever reason or occasion and he seemed to have taken it to heart. “Many happy returns.”

“Thank you!” Robin beamed.

“Hey, Bunsen.” Shanker nodded in his direction. Sam arrived with Andy who swung by to discuss the Elroy case with Robin. The outer office was feeling very cramped now with six people.

“Grab some food Shanker, and let’s go this way.” said Cormoran, grabbing a box of takeaway noodles and stealing a couple of Robin’s dumplings before heading to the inner office.

“Who’s the young bloke?” Shanker asked immediately. He was sharp, and always hyper-aware of strangers.

“Robin’s brother.” Cormoran replied and Shanker was instantly mollified.

“What happened to her…?” he pointed at his own temple.

“Tripped.” Cormoran lied. He would have to let him exhaust his curiosities before they got down to business.

“It wasn’t that git who fucked—”

“No, no!” Cormoran interrupted him. “Long gone. Shanker,” he tried to cut to the chase. “I need something I can use. Something big.”

“How big?” Shanker asked, scarfing down his noodles.

“Big enough to get me some videos that I need,” Cormoran started. “And maybe an interrogations transcript.”

Shanker whistled before resuming his eating. “That’s big, mate.” he agreed, mouth thick with food.

“Yeah, I know. Do you have something that’ll help me get that?”

“Depends,” said Shanker. “How badly do you want it?”

“Bad.”

“ _How_ bad?”

“Triple.”

That got his attention, putting the takeaway box on Cormoran’s desk and looking at him in the face.

“How can you afford a triple?”

It would be a sizeable chunk of his emergency fund, but it was well worth it if Shanker could give him something big enough to leverage for CCTV footage of both The Viaduct Tavern and the Malmaison, as well as transcripts of Tom Turvey’s initial questioning.

Cormoran pulled out an envelope from his coat pocket. “Do you have something big enough?”

Shanker, with grave seriousness said, “Necropolis Station. Saturday. 2 AM.”

“The usuals?” Cormoran asked.

Shanker shook his head. “No. More. Loads more.”

“Just him?”

“Nope.” Shanker smiled.

“Can they trace it back to you?” Cormoran asked.

“Not if your guys do their jobs.”

Cormoran handed Shanker the envelope. What Shanker had just given him was indeed huge. Big enough to be front page news, might even big enough for Anstis or Wardle to get promoted, and get him the entire case file connected with the Sarah Shadlock attack.

Shanker shoved the envelope in his back pocket and seemed to be having trouble. He pulled a bunch of folded paper and littered it on Cormoran’s desk before shoving the envelope back in his pocket again.

He started unfolding each tiny paper one by one, unraveling colourful doodles clearly made by a young child. One piece of paper had quite a good pencil sketch of Robin.

“Angel and Z told me to hand these to Rob,” Shanker explained. “Told them it was her birthday, and to make cards with the flowers.”

“Things going well with you and Alyssa?”

Shanker smiled at that, too. “Yeah, Bunsen, yeah. It’s good. It’s good.” and then, “You seeing anyone?”

He remembered the drive to Yorkshire where Shanker asked him if he was planning to stop a certain wedding.

“Yeah,” said Cormoran. “Robin.”

His childhood friend’s eyes grew wide and he stood up and gave Cormoran a great big hug. “Good on you, Bunsen, mate. Good on you.”

 

* * *

 

“Who was _that_?” Martin asked as Cormoran closed the door to the inner office.

“Mart!” said Robin, trying to get him to speak a little less loudly.

Sam and Andy stared at Martin as though asking _who are you_ , and Robin realised she hasn’t introduced his brother to the rest of the agency yet, so she did.

“But who was _that_?” Martin asked in a whisper. “And why is he giving you flowers?”

“He’s a friend of ours, alright!” said Robin to shush him.

“You make weird friends, Rob.” said Martin, bewildered. Robin thought it was a little rich of Martin to judge her friendships when his group of friends were all underachieving townies who smoked pot all day, but she thought it best to be a bit more gentle with Mart just now.

Andy was now definitely sure it was probably one of the little kids that broke the Elroy vase, and was now suggesting they either find shards of it in the property or get the snobby children to squeal. Their client, Harper Elroy, won’t be very happy about that. He was hoping to sue for rights to own it personally himself.

Andy left to tail one of their other regulars, and Robin wrote Sam his cheque for the morning’s work. “Cheers!” said Sam as he followed Andy not long after.

Shanker and Cormoran joined them back in the outer room again and from the look on Shanker’s face, he had been told she and Cormoran were now a couple. She gave him another hug goodbye and Cormoran walked him down to the curb.

“Pen must be loaded. This is a nice chair, Rob!” said Martin, now running around the space in her chair. Robin shook her head. If she seemed to have grown up too fast, Martin seemed to have stopped somewhere around twenty-one.

He held himself more maturely when Cormoran returned to join them.

“When was the last time you saw Mo Andrada, Martin?” Cormoran asked, cutting to the chase.

Martin’s eyes shifted from her to Cormoran. “Ages ago. Ages.”

“When was ‘ages’?”

Martin shrugged. “Winter, when she went home for Christmas.”

“That’s what you told Wardle?”

“Yeah.”

“But when did you really last see her?”

“What do you mean?” both she and Martin asked Cormoran at the same time. Cormoran was only looking at Martin, not speaking. He was in full interrogation mode, she knew.

“Sometime last week. Wednesday, I think?”

Robin was dumbstruck. “ _What!_ ”

“I was here for a bit, checking some job leads, you know. She was going to get me a job at her studio as an apprentice.”

Robin was bewildered. Martin’s interest were mainly marijuana and horse betting.

“Where did you see her?” Cormoran asked.

“Mart—” Robin felt Cormoran’s hand squeeze hers, getting her to let him lead.

Martin looked uneasy. _Oh for fuck’s_ — “Mart! I thought things were good with you and—”

She was twisting a little, Cormoran’s hand was still gripping hers. It wasn’t tight, but he squeezed when she interrupted. She liked her hand being held, but was kind of annoyed he was controlling her, too.

Robin understood that she needed to be a professional detective, but it was easier said than done when it wasn’t his dumb brother lying to the police.

“You met her at her flat, didn’t you Mart? You slept with her, but you have a girlfriend, is that why you didn’t tell the police you saw her Wednesday?”

He nodded.

Robin shook her head. What an unbelievable tosser her brother turned out to be!

“When did you hear from her last?” Cormoran asked.

“Friday last week. Mid-afternoon.” said Martin.

“And this is what you told DI Wardle?” Robin interjected.

“Yes! I’m not an—”

“You could’ve fooled---”

The hand that was holding her hand raised to quell them both from bickering like schoolyard kids. Robin felt embarrassed at that. She didn’t want him to think that she was so childish, that she’d squabble with her kid brother in front of him, during an interrogation, in their place of work. It was incongruous of who she really was, what she was really like, and how she wanted him to know her.

_Eff this effin’ case!_

“What did she tell you last Friday?” Cormoran asked.

Martin shrugged. “Not much. It was a booty call, wasn’t it? Just asked where I was and if I could meet her somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere. I mean, she literally said ‘somewhere’.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I was four hours away.”

“That’s it? That’s all you said?”

Martin hung his head. “I also told her I’d be in town by Monday.”

“You didn’t tell the police this bit?”

Martin shook his head.

“Did you meet her Monday?”

“No! I was with Jon and Nikki and she… she wasn’t answering.” Martin looked sad at that. Robin knew those two had a complicated history. Sort of like Cormoran and Charlotte— _how is that relevant, Robin!_

“But she called you Tuesday?”

“I didn’t answer because I was with this lot.” said Mart, gesturing to her.

“She called you over and over and you never answered?”

“No, because I knew she’d mess me up again. She told me Wednesday she was seeing someone. I thought she was just doing that to drive me nuts, you know? Get sucked into her drama again. Why isn’t anyone looking at whoever arsehole it is she’s fucking now?”

Robin knew that if— _when_ Martin finds out about Matthew, he would be very hurt.

She felt a little responsible (a lot responsible) for the collateral damage Matthew is causing to people she loved. It had been _her_ misjudgment who led him into their lives. Why’d she think she met ‘the one’ when she was sixteen? Robin felt like an idiot.

“No text messages? No voice mail? Nothing?” Cormoran prodded.

“No. Just a pocket dial, but it had nothing on it.”

“Pocket dial?” both Robin and Cormoran asked at the same time.

“Yeah,” said Mart pulling up the file on his phone. “I showed it to the detective and he listened to it, and he said she _was_ probably butt-dialling me all night.”

Martin played the file. There was a crash of some sort and then just static.

“Can we have a copy, Mart?” Robin asked. Martin nodded, taking back his phone and immediately emailing it to her.

Robin moved to her desk and pulled up the file from her computer. She used the audio software they use to enhance sound, increasing its enhancement gradually until—

“Holy shit!” Martin exclaimed.

“Mother fucker.” Cormoran cursed.

Very very faint as though it was happening in a different room altogether, a distant sob was cracking through the hum of airconditioning.

 _“Please…”_ the female voice sobbed. Inaudible muttering and then, _“…thirsty.”_

“That’s Mo! That’s Mo!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shanker!!
> 
> Oh Martin...


	30. "How was your day?"

 

 

 

“Shit!” Cormoran exclaimed, yanking his phone from his pocket and storming into the smaller office. He was calling Wardle.

If Mo Andrada had been begging for water from her captor Tuesday, they didn’t have long. Was the fucker dehydrating and starving her to death?

Cormoran knew they had about a week or so to find her alive if she isn’t being given food and water. Of course, her captor may have already killed her.

He couldn’t quite believe that Wardle let the pocket dial go without checking it with all the Met’s equipment. That should be his first instinct.

“Not a good time, Strike!” said Wardle as he finally picked up, the second time Cormoran rang.

“You didn’t listen to the pocket dial recording Martin Ellacott’s phone!” he yelled into his mobile.

“Wh— I did listen, it had nothing on it!”

“Didn’t think to use any of your fancy shit tools over there to check if you can pick anything up?”

A beat. “Did you find something?”

“Yes we found something, idiot! I’m sending it now!”

Robin, who had walked in after him, was quick on her feet to get back to her desk to send Wardle a copy of the enhanced version. Cormoran hung up on Wardle mid-sentence, towering with temper. Why’d they have to bloody do the Met’s jobs for them? And then get treated like bumbling intruders when the press starts looking for someone to praise.

He rubbed at his temple. Martin still heard from Mo Andrada mid-afternoon last Friday. Didn’t call him Monday when he first got into town, didn’t go into work, and Matthew couldn’t get a hold of her then. She must’ve been abducted over the weekend.

_But why?_

It was obvious that this was the same culprit that assaulted Sarah Shadlock. But you don’t douse a woman and acid and throw her down a laundry chute, then commit the completely different crime of holding another woman captive.

Kidnapping is tricky in the city. Lots of cameras everywhere, houses built next together. All it would take would be a few screams before someone comes knocking on the culprit’s door. That could have already happened, and even if the perp hid her well, the uniformed officers who would investigate would make a note. All Wardle would have to do was check for something like that and they’d find her.

But he can’t trust them to do even simple procedure like that. Wardle dropped the ball on this.

Cormoran sighed. He wished Wardle didn’t show himself to be such a careless tit just now. He wanted him to have the information Shanker gave him. It would’ve bought Cormoran possibly a lifetime of valuable good will with the man, and he did consider him a friend.

Instead, it would have to be Anstis, which wasn’t all bad, he could likely use a salary bump, but to talk to Anstis means having to sit through his sulking about Cormoran swindling him for case evidence even when he was personally connected with the case.

He rubbed his face harshly. The news from Shanker can’t keep. It’s happening that same night. And if there’s a woman being starved somewhere, then time is definitely running out. He can almost hear the ticking of the clock, counting him down to move.

Robin came back into the inner office.

“I’ll have to go to Rich Anstis,” he sighed. “I might be able to leverage for the entire case file if he isn’t too tetchy. He’d be pissed at me for snookering him into giving those photos of Sarah and the CCTV with Monica Bouchard without mentioning we’ve started dating.”

Robbin nodded. She was sat on the edge of his desk now, squeezing his stressball. Her presence in his office like this was de-stressing him. His port in the storm.

“You and Matt didn’t fight?” she asked.

“I was very well-behaved.” he assured her, taking her hand and just playing absently with her fingers. He’d take her to Cornwall after all this. Stay in his Uncle Ted’s boat house, never leave the bed.

“I’ll go to Sarah. Ask her about what she wrote.” Robin offered.

“She might not be in any fit state to communicate, judging from her handwriting.”

“I can come with you and meet Anstis.”

The thought made him smirk. “That’ll just piss him off. He liked Charlotte,” he said, kissing the back of Robin’s hand. “Liked the idea he was friends with someone like that.”

“Stunningly beautiful?” she said. No etch of jealousy on her face.

“Rich. Mean. I don’t fucking know.”

“Would he _disapprove_ of me?” Robin joked, moving to sit on his lap.

He rested his head by her shoulder as she pet his hair. Sixteen years with Charlotte and he had never experienced this sort of easy, small, comforting warmth. It was only ever erotic calamity he kept mistaking for love.

He’d long since realised that Charlotte Campbell only ever took, and he had only been ever-willing to give. She had been _that_ beautiful. But he had never felt cared for, truly cared for. Not like this. Not like now.

“He’d like you when he meets you,” he told her, certain. “But I don’t think this is good timing.”

She nodded. “I just want to _do_ something.”

_Just stay safe._

He cupped her beautiful face and tilted it for a soft kiss.

 

* * *

 

Robin was having a good day, all things considered. She took a couple of meetings with prospective clients the afternoon Cormoran had gone to try and get more information from Richard Anstis. It had been her first solo interviews to see if their cases (and their personality) were a good fit for the agency.

She was even very thrilled that neither of these clients seemed disappointed that it was _her_ they were talking to, instead of the famous Cormoran Strike. The aftermath of the Chiswell case certainly launched her from behind Cormoran’s shadow. _Private Eye_ even asked her to be on the cover— something Cormoran had never been asked. She turned down further inquiries for press exposure, of course. It would be impossible to do her job if she courted too much attention.

One of the prospective clients had been a very glamorous woman in a fur coat who asked if they could possibly track down her prized Tibetan Mastiff that ran away, or had been stolen. The other was a rather timid woman who owned a small antique store and worried one or all of her employees have been nicking inventory and reselling them on e-bay.

She liked both cases, and was even excited at the prospect of looking for a puppy. The antique store woman was willing to wait for the agency to free up a bit, but the glamorous lady was ticked off which was only natural with the urgency of her situation, but Robin’s hands were quite tied.

Cormoran had been reluctant to leave her and only went away when Robin assured him Martin would likely sulk on their couch the rest of the afternoon. But Martin, as she knew, left not long after. Feeling calmed and in her element, she wanted to show herself ready for whatever it was that might happen. She was smart and fit and stronger than she looked. If it came to hand-to-hand combat, she can hold her own.

But no one came in to attack. Andy and Sam had come and gone, doling out reports in person, handing her equipment or requested for their expenses be reimbursed.

She’d rock this whole ‘girlboss’ thing, she mused, swivelling around in Cormoran’s ancient office chair and pretended to puff her pen like a cigarette.

She imagined having her own office with a phone where she could call for an assistant to come bring her tea. A few more cases, maybe. She loved this space. She thought it suited them, made them _cool_ and _legit_ even better than sterile glass offices in the business district. Very 70s noir. Old fashioned.

But growth would be her own office, and maybe even her own subcontractors, her pick of clients. Cormoran could deal with the murderers and the adulterers and she’d be the one in charge of antique shop owners and million-dollar vases, and the occasional lost puppy.

She heard the door from the outer office open and she sat up, a little anxious. Suddenly, the office was a little too dark, the street a little too quiet, herself a little too alone.

The way the sofa farted told her it was Cormoran.

He was laid on the couch, looking totally exhausted. She walked up to him, ruffling his hair as he reached for her, pulling her by the hip.

“Move over.” she said and Cormoran lifted himself off the sofa to give her space. He didn’t sit up, but waited until she sat before laying his head on her lap. She felt a swell of tenderness for him like this— tired, perhaps a little bothered, as though she was the only thing that could make it better. She kissed his cheek, he sighed.

“How was your day?” Robin asked, stroking his hair.

“Better now.” he gave her a small smile. She bent to kiss his lips. Soft. Barely making contact. She could feel the tips of his fingers ghosting at her arm. She thought to herself—even though neither of them had said it—that office PDA would be a hard no rule, but she figured since it was past office hours and it was just the two of them, she wouldn’t inhibit herself from expressing and accepting affection.

She wondered why people who understood they needed to ‘slow down’, would opt to cut sex out when this sort of intimacy—this shared quiet and comfort and touching—made her want to elope with him to somewhere or Saturn where no one could interrupt.

She never felt this much for Matthew, not even when she was at her best or he was at his. It wasn’t even close.

She knew she should perhaps feel scared at whatever chemical machinations firing in her brain that’s making her feel this much. It _was_ a little much. She knew that, she _knew_ that. And if it were anyone else who was acting like she’s been acting lately, she’d give that person a good shake--but she was so the very opposite of scared. It’s like finally, she’s getting it _right_. All of it. Her entire life finally feels _right_.

“How’s yours?” he asked, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She smiled back at him. “Better now.”

They stayed like that for awhile, just sitting there quietly, fingers entwined at his chest, her other hand stroking his hair. He was thinking deeply, and she hoped also about her.

 

* * *

 

He tried to sear this moment in his memory. The feel of her, the look of her, even the smell of her. There would be a million more of these, he hoped, but _just in case_.

She had been the first to break their blissful silence.

“Things didn’t go well with Anstis?”

He rubbed his thumb at the back of the hand he was holding. “Not particularly.”

“He didn’t give you anything?”

“Gave me everything I wanted.”

She looked confused. Cormoran sighed.

Cormoran, despite his frame and his one leg, had the quickest reflex, and the strongest upper body strength. He had lunged and caught Tom Turvey when he toppled himself over the stairway’s railing. But there’s only so much grip you can get when you’re holding a man with a death wish by the leather strap of a wristwatch.

He knew his head would splat like a watermelon from that height. He had seen it happen multiple times. It had been the shrieks from the busy lobby that had rattled him. The calamity of crowd chaos that brought him back to Basra, Cyprus, Afghanistan.

He closed his eyes and squeezed Robin’s warm, soft hands, feeling calmed by the placid sounds of the street and her breathing.

“Tom Turvey killed himself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot… THINS! 🤣🤣🤣
> 
> If it’s a Cormoran Strike mystery and nobody dies, is it really a Cormoran Strike mystery?


	31. "But what if they're bad?"

 

 

 

“ _What?!_ ” Robin exclaimed, appalled. She pushed Cormoran off her lap to sit him upright, look at his face. For a split second she wanted to be mad, to tell him not to make bad jokes like that. But she knew he wasn’t joking. Why would he joke about something like that? “What happened?”

He told her.

She threw her arms around him and felt like crying. “Oh my god! That’s horrible!” she said, feeling as though there was nothing she could do or say that was an appropriate reaction to what Cormoran had to go through that afternoon.

She pulled away from him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” he said, and he pulled her back to him and felt his hand on the back of her head, embracing her tight. “I’m alright.”

And that’s how she knew he wasn’t.

“Tell me what happened. All of it.” she demanded.

He sighed heavily as though he’s had to repeat it multiple times already that day. He must have. He got back late when he said he wouldn’t be long to talk to Anstis.

“I’d been in Anstis’s office on the 18th floor. He’d calmed down a bit after I gave him the tip I got from Shanker. It’s a big one. A little drugs trade between gangs at Necropolis Station later. He invited me out for a smoke. There was a little garden on the 19th.” said Cormoran.

“We go up, run into Tom Turvey and a uniformed escort walking down. He wasn’t gripping him hard enough, and besides, there was supposed to be two of him but he reckoned he could take Turvey if he needed to. He hasn’t been sleeping, eating, looked like shit.” Cormoran sighed, Robin just sat there listening.

“That’s well and good, but can’t pin a wriggly criminal against a wall if there are no walls. It happened fast.”

Robin squeezed Cormoran’s large hand and he squeezed back.

“But what was he doing on the 19th floor if the holding cells are on the ground floor?” Robin asked, wanting to understand.

“They were on the 20th. The clinic was there. He was getting a check-up. The docs upstairs usually went down when they’re needed, but since Turvey didn’t look like your usual low life druggie, they figured he wouldn’t put up much of a fight. Rode the elevator up, but was barred from the ride down because some suits didn’t want to share it with someone cuffed.”

He continued. “So, they took the stairs. They were heading to the 18th floor for the service elevators.”

“Oh my god. Oh, Corm!” she wrapped her arms around his neck again. Tightly. He chuckled a little at that. “I’m fine.”

She cupped his face, at a loss for what to do. So she kissed him. “That _fucking_ arsehole!” she suddenly yelled. Cormoran looked surprised. “That bloody fucking arsehole, doing it like that! Dragging you—”

“He didn’t drag—”

“—with him, and making all those people witness that sort of cowardice! Oh _god_! Civilians walk through that lobby! School children! Oh my god!”

“Hey,” he said, gentle, grabbing for her gesticulating wrists. “There weren’t any children there this afternoon. There was a lot of panic—” she noticed him hitch his breath “but it was mostly officers and employees.”

This gave Robin very small comfort. She took a deep breath, not wanting _him_ to placate _her_ when _he_ was the one who had to—“It wasn’t your fault.” she said, hand to his face just to touch him, because she didn’t know what you should say to someone who tried—and failed--to save someone from killing themselves.

He smiled at her, eyes kind. “I know it wasn’t my fault.”

“Are you okay?” she asked again, feeling like a broken record. This must be what it feels like to love her, to want to help and ease her pain and burden but don’t know how.

“I promise.” he said, holding the hand that was caressing his face.

“Why would he do that?” she asked, her voice sounded a little shaky to her own ears. She didn’t feel anything for the demise of Tom Turvey, who she disliked from the first. Cormoran pulled out a thick file from his messenger bag on the coffee table. One arm behind Robin, the other flipping through papers and pages inside of it. He stopped at a credit card statement. “He bought the hydrochloric acid from his business expense account.”

Robin stared at the entry Cormoran was pointing. It was only home use amount, nothing noteworthy like the amount Elizabeth Tassel purchased. That’s why it would’ve been hard to trace unless you knew where to look.

Robin gasped, and felt Cormoran kiss her temple.

Further down the row of innocuous purchases was one made Tuesday, October 9th, for another bottle.

Mo Andrada was in trouble.

“Have you talked to Wardle? What did he say about Mo?” she asked Cormoran. He looked grave. “What? What is it?”

“They still don’t have a timeline for her abduction, and if it happened Monday they have due course to pick up Martin if he had even 30 minutes time unaccounted for.”

“ _What?”_ Robin asked, appalled. “But he _wouldn’t_! He _didn’t_!”

“I know. I know.” said Cormoran, pulling her closer to him. “Wardle doesn’t have any other leads, and he can’t keep sitting on his hands about Martin just because he’s your brother. They still aren’t treating it as connected with Sarah’s attack, nor the break-in at your place.”

Robin was astounded. “But—!”

“Wardle and Vanessa know the cases are tied together, but Carver was intent on following his own fucking hunch until the end.”

“That _I_ did it?” said Robin, mad and upset. “Is he that mad about Noel Brockbank that he’s going to shut out Wardle and Vanessa—”

“He’s been chucked out.” said Cormoran.

“What do you mean?”

“Kicked off the case. That little note Sarah wrote wasn’t the only thing he coerced from her.” He was saying good things for the case, but he still looked grave. “Got her to do a paternity test.”

Robin felt her stomach drop.

“Used the results to get a confession out of Tom Turvey, to give you up. He thinks you two were working together. That had been a rough interrogation. That’s what set off his not eating and sleeping.”

So many things. So many things are happening and are being told and the only thing that seemed to penetrate Robin’s mind was, “It’s Matt’s. Sarah’s baby is Matt’s.”

It wasn’t a question, but Cormoran nodded anyway.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran couldn’t read the expression on her face. She jumped up suddenly, pacing around the office. “Okay, we need to find the woman Matt gave his phone number to at the Tavern. If we talk to her, we’ll know how the napkin ended up with Sarah. And the dress. We’ll need to find all those women Matthew slept with, see if any of them fit the intruder. Around my height, thin, limber, possibly limping—”

They were very good, sound courses of action and steps they should take. He pulled up his notepad from his coat and started scribbling them down.

“—find Monica Andrada again, ask what she knows. Check out the Malmaison---are you writing these down?”

“Yeah,” said Cormoran, scribbling fast. “Keep going. Check out the Malmaison, I think it would help if we could get the guest list for that night but it could be diff…”

Robin sat back down next to him. “You’re writing my ideas down.” she said again.

He looked at her then, and she was just looking at him in the face, blinking. “Of course I’m writing them down.”

“But what if they’re… _bad_?”

He smiled at her. “I don’t think there are any bad ideas at this point,” he said, flipping his notepad closed. “But it’s always worth following a flow if you feel it. You’d be surprised what you come up with, or what ends up being useful. You have a real knack for this Robin, I wouldn’t make you partner—”

“Just to get in my pants?” she quipped, but she was smiling.

He didn’t like the joke. He knew she could sense it because she caressed the back of his head and and rested her chin on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said so softly, rubbing the tip of her nose lightly on his cheek. It tickled and Cormoran couldn’t keep from smiling. She smiled too.

“I never thought that about you,” said Robin. “Not once.” and she held him by the chin to turn his face to her for a kiss.

He stared into her blue-grey eyes, her beautiful angelic face, and still couldn’t quite believe how she ended up here, with him, looking at him with so much love he isn’t quite sure he deserves. “I love you, Robin.”

He meant it always, felt it in every waking moment, but it was in the quiet, in the small intimate closeness that only they inhabit, did he feel the most compelled to say it. He wished the English language had a more profound term for it, a secret word that can only be unlocked when you feel it rightly and intensely, as he does for her.

But she smiled at him with her kind and beautiful face and said, “I love you, Corm.” and he knew it was enough. Everything, in fact. It was everything.

“How do you feel about Matthew and Sarah?” he asked when they retired back to his flat and they were cooking pasta for dinner.

“I don’t know,” she sighed, nibbling on a string of pasta as she waited for Cormoran to be done with the sauce. “I was upset, but only because I knew I _had_ to be upset, you know what I mean?”

He scooped a bit of the sauce and fed it to her for a taste, and then tasting what’s left in the spoon. Needs more pepper.

“I won’t be throwing her a shower any time soon, but I kind of don’t care. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No, I don’t think so.” said Cormoran honestly.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“How did you feel when you saw Charlotte—?” Cormoran fought through the chill he felt when Robin mentioned her name. Like it was taboo.

It was different a few months ago. He had been with someone he didn’t love sufficiently, and he supposed his internal turmoil over Robin being married to someone else also came into play. But now asked, he realised that he didn’t much think of the foetuses in Charlotte Campbell’s uterus to be babies at all. More like a protrusion that mutated her perfect figure. It was an awful thought that he was too smart to tell Robin, in case she wanted children in the future (he’d give her anything she wanted, even that). So he summarised it all as, “Nothing much.” which was true enough.

“Exactly!” said Robin. “I don’t feel as though it’s any business of mine, really. I don’t want it to be my business.”

They sat on his small dining table, finding his place pleasantly cosy now that he knew Robin would never be too far away when they were there. 

“I’m mostly worried about Mart, though. And Mo. She doesn’t have long if whoever’s keeping her isn’t giving her water.” she sighed. “How horrible.”

 

* * *

 

Robin’s back was to the headboard, looking at her phone when Cormoran plopped down on top of her, large head on her stomach.

“Remember my cousin Harry?” she said, running her fingers through his hair.

“Journalist.” he groaned into her stomach and the rumbling tickled.

“She just told me the Telegraph is running the Tom Turvey story online tonight, and it’s front page tomorrow morning.”

He groaned again. “What’s in it?”

“Just that it happened. They know you were there, but there’s a super-injunction.”

He lifted his head a little to speak properly. “Yeah, Anstis said they’d try for something like that. If they twig out it was Tom Turvey, they’ll soon find Sarah, and then they’ll have a different problem in their hands.”

She bent down a little to wrap her arms around his head and give it a kiss. He moaned contentedly. “You’re like a puppy.” she joked, back to petting his hair. He lifted her top and licked the skin of her stomach. Robin shrieked, giggling.

“Didn’t think you’d be up for it, you look knackered.” she said. She quite liked the weight of him on top of her like this. She pulled the duvet over his prone body and he gave her stomach one noisy kiss, and then another.

“I can take care of you, if you want.” he said, face buried in her abdomen, hands roaming the skin underneath her tank top. He was kissing down her stomach, large hands squeezing her breasts and she’s arching into him. He brought his hands down, hooking them on the waistband of her shorts, licking at her belly button and he uttered a noise that was half growl half groan.

But it wasn’t a groan. It was a snore.

Cormoran had fallen asleep.

Robin suppressed the guffaw of laughter threatening to overcome her. Instead she ran her fingers through his hair again and went back to looking at her phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a break for a few days, but we’re back to our regular programming! Daily updates around this time, whatever time it is for you. :)
> 
> Thanks so much for the bookmarks and the kudos and of course the comments!!! <3 
> 
> Did you figure the baby was Matthew’s? Are you glad Carver’s been kicked off the case? Did Tom do all this and just decided on the easy way out?


	32. "What is this about, Corm?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is filler. Sexy, sexy filler.

 

 

Cormoran woke up with a start, lifting his head not from his pillow, but somewhere on top of Robin’s body.

He blinked at her. She was smiling as though trying to contain a laugh.

“I fell asleep.” he declared.

She nodded. “You can do that some more if you want. It’s only 11:30.”

“On top of you.” he continued. He couldn’t believe he did that. Never in his 37 years has he _ever_ —

Robin laughed. “I don’t mind.”

“When I said…”

Robin’s face fell with a look of consolation and to his chagrin, _pity_. She cupped his face in her soft hands and pulled him further up. “Oh baby, that’s alright.” she cooed, kissing him on the lips. He wrenched his face away, wide eyed, in utter disbelief.

“That has _never_ — I would _never_ —!”

“It’s fine. Seriously. It’s not like you started something you didn’t finish. Just come here. Come up here.” she urged, pulling at him to sit up next to her.

Cormoran felt like spiralling. He prided himself that he has yet to feel a perceptible drop in his male randiness. His friends had started opening up, especially three or four pints down, about how they could only do so much before they tapped out, how they have at the end of the day felt too tired, even in the face of eager and willing partners.

Not Cormoran _fucking_ Strike, though.

But what if he’s getting too long in the tooth? Robin has made him want, _want_ , _want_ from the first instance he’d been permitted, and really, he hasn’t had that much sex since a particularly tumultuous week with Charlotte towards the end where all there was were fucking and fighting. And Robin, who was fit, and young, and smoking hot, obviously had needs that he is responsible to fullfill.

But what if he couldn’t now, being that he’s _so old_ and overweight and knackered and out of shape?

She was laughing.

“What?” he asked a little moodily. He could see a wet patch of his drool on her tank top. He had half a mind to sleep on the couch for shame, but he would never pass up a chance to be next to Robin unless she herself kicked him out.

“Men.” she shook her head, wincing as she tried to shimmy down to sleep.

“What’s wrong?” Cormoran asked, alarmed.

“My legs are asleep. They’re prickling.”

Cormoran waited until she was fully laid on the bed. “You feeling okay?” he asked.

She ran her legs up and down his for an answer. He laid properly down next to her and they both were on their sides looking at each other. She rubbed a finger on the crease between his brows. “Stop sulking.”

He pretended to bite at her withdrawing hand. He tried to fight it, but he couldn’t. It was coming out of him, a cliche. “I _swear_ that’s never happened before.”

Robin rolled her eyes. “You mean you’ve never fallen asleep on top of a woman _after_ spending an afternoon being interrogated, _after_ trying to help a man who plunged to his death?”

“I’m serious—”

“Then stop!” she interrupted him. “Look, seriously. I don’t care. Seriously. These toxic masculine expectations are coming from other men, not women.” she looked a little cross now. “If I really needed to get off, I’d do it myself.”

This made him laugh, and so she did, too.

“What is this about, Corm? Really?” she asked, propping her head on a hand.

They looked at each other.

“Talk to me?” she said, eyes gentle, hand rubbing his chest.

Cormoran held it there. “I think about it sometimes,” he started. “The age—don’t interrupt--” he said, and pulled her against him and she squirmed with every sign of interrupting. “It isn’t big, unlike the century between you and Ewan Toft,” he joked. She giggled at that. “But I do wonder, if you wouldn’t want someone…” Cormoran sighed. Something about that day was making him honest. Perhaps the slip of a live man’s hand from his grasp, the distressing noise of catastrophe that brought him back to war, the soft and gentle love he’s received since being with her.

“There are things…” he breathed deeply. He doesn’t regret what he had to do in his life to survive, to get by, to do the work, but she deserved the very best of men, Robin Ellacott.

He stared as she entwined her fingers with his, and she turned her face up to him, stunning, kind, gentle. “I have things too, Corm.” she said with a sad smile.

He squeezed her and she sighed, and then they went to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran wasn’t fine.

He had wrapped her in his arms that night, in a sea of tangled limbs that seemed to be _holding onto_ her than just holding her. She squirmed away a little, just to shift for some space, and he had woken with a frightened little gasp that rattled her. “I’m right here.” she whispered into the darkness, as she pressed her cheek against his chest and he once again wrapped his limbs around her.

She could hear how fast his heart was beating.

What would he need? Soup? Sex? Why doesn’t she _know?_ Why doesn’t she know him well enough to know exactly what to do when he’s distressed and scared like this. What would help? Should she Google it? Ask Lucy or Nick or Ilsa? Call Charlotte Campbell?

She woke again to his stuttered grunts, to the tiny trembling of his body as though his very dreams were causing him to vibrate. His brow was knotted and his jaws were clenching and she held his shoulders and shook him awake. “Cormoran! Cormoran!”

He woke up as though he’d been underwater and was gasping up for air, disoriented for a moment before she held his face in her hands and seemed to finally register where he was, who he was with.

“Stay with me?” he had asked, and his voice strained and face so distressed Robin wanted to cry. It reminded her of finding Matthew that night in the Maldives, delirious and so very scared.

“Yes.” she said immediately, pressing her cheek to his. “Anything.” She wasn’t even sure what he meant, but she had meant forever.

 

* * *

 

Memories of the worst seem to loop in his mind like blinding flashes, reminding him of the brightness and darkness and noise. _The fucking noise_. He was breathing hard, trying to concentrate on keeping it even, quiet. He didn’t want to wake Robin. He could tell she didn’t sleep well.

He got up abruptly, feeling the strong urge to go jogging. That had been something he did to clear his mind. He knew he couldn’t jog anymore, of course. But maybe box? There was a 24-hour gym down the block with equipment, he knew. Physical action to make him feel as though he was fighting back.

It was still dark out. He could take an hour, come back with breakfast, hopefully still find Robin asleep. She needed sleep.

He wrote a note and laid it on his pillow. He rubbed her back lightly, not wanting to wake her with a kiss.

The cold Autumn air was bracing, helping. Even though the gym was bright, it felt eerie with only one or two obsessed gym rats on the treadmill and pop music on low volume. It was one of those trendy gyms that he hated, with bright walls and motivational posters in pastel. He much preferred the gyms of old, with exposed concrete and grimy equipment that has seen many a men sweat. Disgusting, sure, but conveyed the brute-ness of physical movement.

The night shift employees at the gym did not look like they gave a damn, which suited him fine. He had been dreading that they’d be overbearing and chipper and instruct him on his form when he could likely teach them all a thing or ten about boxing.

The endorphins were helping. When he was working up a sweat, he asked himself why he took too long to get back into this because he enjoyed it. He couldn’t even feel his prosthesis—and he usually did. He felt light on his feet as he remembered the form like muscle memory, as he took jab after jab after jab imagining the bag to be Robin’s intruder, the frightening unknown attacker, even Roy effin Carver.

He felt energetic, excited for breakfast, to come home to Robin, spend the morning perhaps making up for the night before. The thought made him grin, distracting him, and he grunted as the bag swung back at him before he could hold it still.

He could’ve gone on for longer, but the sun was out and he hoped to get back before Robin woke up.

He didn’t shower or change, his place was just right down the street. He passed the row of treadmills with a few more runners, past a row of yoga mats where one lady was doing a headstand, past—

“Hey, sexy.”

He stopped and turned around, the pair of legs in a headstand cartwheeled to stand upright.

“What are you doing here?” he grinned, leaning towards Robin as she tiptoed for a kiss.

“I thought I was being invited!” said Robin, wiping his sweaty face with her towel as he also picked up the bag she had brought. “You said to come.”

Cormoran laughed. “I wrote ‘home soon’, not ‘come soon’.”

“Oh!” she smiled as they walked back out into the chilly morning. “It was really dark and you have awful penmanship.”

They teased each other as they held hands walking down the waking street. Him about his penmanship, her about her poor eyesight. None of it was true, but all of it was warm and light and reassuring.

“We should do this again,” she smiled up at him as they got back in his attic flat and her arms were around his neck and his hands rested on her hips.

“Yeah, we should.” he agreed as he kissed her, soft at first, and then _more_. _Hungrier_.

He pulled her up and she locked her limber legs around his hip, and he plopped her down a little roughly on his tiny dining table. She pulled away from their fevered kiss only to pull off her top, and then her sports bra, and he was mouthing at her jaw, neck, groaning against her breast as he felt her hip thrusting up against him.

“Fuck, Robin!” he whined, raking at the sides of her to peel her purple leggings off.

“Bed. Bed.” he said against her mouth, wrapping his arms around her back, poised to carry her just the few steps back to the bedroom.

“No time.” she panted, and felt her hands pull down his jogging pants and boxers just enough to get to what she needed.

The sound she made was pornographic.

She matched his frantic thrusting, wrapping her body around him like a vice. They were going fast, the antique table squeaking complaints in sync with them as they rocked. It wasn’t very comfortable, the table’s height was not made for this purpose, but they were both past the point of caring.

 _“Christ!”_ he moaned as he felt her clench. She was stuttering her own sobs trying to get to where they needed to go. She leaned back, resting her weight on her hands and he could see her flushed and sweaty and very naked body clearly with the sunrise. “ _Holy flying fuck, you’re incredible!”_ he managed to choke out, astounded that he could still keep going even with such a sight before him. It had been more than a day for him, he remembered. Back 24 hours before when they were considering going slow.

This was decidedly _not_ slow. It was fast. Very very fast. And he was close. Very, very close. And somehow she knew, because she took her hand and reached down between them to help things along. “ _Jesus!_ ” he yelled, and squeezed hard at the flesh of her thighs, going faster and harder than he ever dared with her.

The table didn’t like that.

 _“We’re going to—”_ he protested, wrapping his arm around her, pulling her body closer, squeezing a buttock with his hand to grip as he thrusted. If the table broke--

“Behind. Behind.” Robin whined nonsensically, moving to twist— but he _couldn’t_. He was too—

The table’s agony didn’t last for very long. He bent forward, mouth to a breast and he felt her—glorious, sublime, _tight_ around him and he was shuddering and groaning undignified grunts against Robin’s collarbone.

She chuckled breathily as her own shudders ended, locking her ankles over his arse to keep them together like that. He was kissing up her neck, her face, her brow. He kissed her hungrily, both hands cupping her face, crashing it to his. By the sounds of the table’s squeaking, they were rocking against each other gently.

They stayed like that, locked still together on the table, foreheads together, waiting for their rapid breaths to calm.

He had been addicted to being the lover. He craved the feeling he had for Charlotte Campbell like a crack addict, coming back over and over even at the risk of an overdose or doing harm to himself just for one final hit.

But to _be loved,_ by Robin Ellacott? It was bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *fans self*
> 
> Someone pls tell these two there’s a woman missing. Jk. There’s always time for fluff and smut.


	33. "Stay with me?"

 

 

 

Robin couldn’t keep from grinning as she looked at herself in Cormoran’s tiny bathroom mirror. That little _stunt_ out there had been her idea. She was a little curious about what it would feel like to have sex other than on a bed. Matthew really was terribly unimaginative, and thought himself above cruder sexual gratification.

But it wasn’t crude, Robin thought as she brushed her teeth with the one Cormoran got for her. Or dirty, or shameful, or embarrassing. It was _hot_ , and passionate and— _get a grip, Robin!_ she chastised herself, because she was getting turned on at her own personal debrief. _Someone died!_ She scowled as she remembered Tom Turvey.

She remembered watching Cormoran box a little before she decided to do a bit of yoga herself. His form looked very sexy, and she’s never seen him move that lightly on his feet before. And the strength and virility there was in how he punched. It’s like it awoken something prehistoric in her, biological.

He had said something about age, which was ludicrous to her. He seemed pretty young and fit and able on the table over there (she really was shameless). Does he worry that he wouldn’t be able to _keep up_? It was hilarious to her that anyone would think that of her _sexually_. But she had to admit, they _had_ been doing it kind of _constantly_ since they’ve started (she had the decency to feel her ears growing hot)… but it isn’t because she was _young_.

It was _him_. Cormoran was making her feel— _seriously, Robin. It’s no wonder you’ve got nothing done this week!_ chastised a rational part of her brain. But it was honest. She doesn’t think she’s ever thought about sex this much in her entire life. Serious things were happening left and right and it hasn’t kept her from wanting to jump his bones.

She realised that she’d been rubbing her legs together even right now at the thought.

The more she assessed her relationship with Cormoran, the more she realised that the love she had for Matthew had been immature and young, and later on, obligatory. There was nothing immature nor obligatory about what she feels for Cormoran.

She opened his bathroom cabinet, looking for a spare razor, finding a row of tampon boxes and the deodorant she used and her brand of body wash. She felt like swooning, and wondered if she was the only woman on the planet who has ever wanted to swoon for deodorant.

When she finally exited the bathroom wrapped in towels, Cormoran was sat on one of his dining chairs with a distant look on his face. He seemed to come to as she stepped towards him, smiling at her as she passed by and squeezed his shoulder.

So he wasn’t still totally fine. Why would he be. _She_ wasn’t still totally fine. She’d been thinking about the state Mo could be in now, begging that she was thirsty. Where could she be? Who could be doing this?

They had breakfast at the cafe down the street again, and she was a little worried that he only ordered some scones like she did. So _this_ is how it was like to love _her_ , worry about her. And she tried to fight her instincts to ask after how little appetite he had, seeing as he got a good work out that morning _and_ the thing on the table (her cheeks felt hot) _and_ he was Cormoran Strike.

“Stay with me?” he asked again, chin on his large hand, his other hand on her backrest. He was angled to her and they were so far mostly just looking at each other in between tiny bites of their scant brunch.

She smiled as she brushed a tiny crumb off the side of his mouth with her thumb. “I already said I would.”

“Until this case is over? I know we said we’d slow—”

She laughed.

“What?” he said, smiling at her with a bewildered look on his face.

“Every time we say ‘slow’ we kind of go the opposite direction,” said Robin. He kissed her. “Of course I’ll stay.”

 

* * *

 

When they drove back to Denmark Street after picking up more of Robin’s things, she didn’t even ask if she could be the one to drive back. She simply took his keys from his pocket and did so.

He knew he wasn’t fooling her. The car had stuttered twice when the honking of cars startled him on the drive to Earl’s Court. He had also pathetically called for her when he thought she disappeared in the street when she was only inside the Land Rover looking for something. He didn’t like not knowing where she was just then, Tom Turvey’s unnaturally bent body was morphing with frightening visions of Robin’s beautiful hair, beautiful face, beautiful body twisted dead like that.

_Fuck._

“How do you have so many clothes!” she exclaimed, pulling open his bedroom closet for the first time. He didn’t really have too many clothes, he simply didn’t get rid of them even when he no longer wore them. Not that he ever thought he’d fit into the clinging training shirts he wore in his 20s when he was in the best shape of his life. He just never bothered clearing.

He liked that she wanted space for her own things. He hopped off the bed and pushed his hanged clothes to one side until half of the closet was free. She laughed at that, and it cheered him up.

They spent the next hour putting Robin’s clothes in hangers and hanging them up. He liked even this borrowed cohabitation. It feels normal and faraway from their reality that involved abductions and acid and men whose brains end up splattered on the floor.

_Don’t think about that._

She had underthings and he dug out old boxer shorts and briefs and socks with holes that he still sometimes wore from a drawer. He was a little embarrassed that she’d see or pick him up on it, but she was folding them neatly in an old holdall to tuck away in the closet.

He never had to make space for a woman before. _He_ had been the infiltrator, and even then Charlotte had only given him an inch.

For all the reverence she displayed folding his old underthings, she had thrown hers in the now empty drawer. He laughed, pulling a lacy black thing that looked too tiny to be practical. It didn’t even look like it would cover bits it was supposed to be covering.

Is it even underwear? Maybe it was a headband.

“How would this work? It’s see through!” he asked.

She laughed. “I didn’t know that got in there. It isn’t for practical uses. Lily had given it to me, not even sure if it’ll fit.” She squinted at it. “ _Christ_ it is tiny!”

“I bet it’ll fit.” he teased.

She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Maybe later.”

“Is that a promise?” he grinned.

She shook her head, laughing as she stood up to snatch the pants he was dangling in front of her. He snatched it away from her reach and pulled her to him for a kiss. God he wanted her. Case be effin’ damned, he just wanted to pull off her clothes and feel her all over him again.

“Hmm,” she smiled against his mouth. “ _Mister Strike_ —” she murmured in a half-moan that sent signals firing all over him. He knew she could feel him against her hip as he squeezed her arse inconveniently covered by her jeans.

Her phone rang. “Don’t answer.” he whined, mouth to her neck, hands snaking under her top and over a breast. He hummed with approval as the ringing stopped, and he had pulled her top off her body.

It rang again. Cormoran groaned between the crevice of her delectable breasts. She giggled at his annoyance and untangled herself from his amorous embrace.

“Okay I’ll go.” she said, face serious. “Okay. Thanks.”

Yeah, they’re not having any more sex that day.

“Who was it?”

“Trouble with Matt,” said Robin, bending to pick up her blouse and putting it back on. “He’s been trying to leave against medical orders.”

 

* * *

 

What was Matthew playing at? He just had major surgery. They wanted Robin to consent to an involuntary 24-hour psych hold in the aftermath, but she really couldn’t do that—not even to Matthew Cunliffe. She can’t believe she’s still married to him. If he had a sliver of care left for her at all, he’d sign the divorce papers already.

She wondered if she could get him to do that now. Help him out with whatever it is that he wanted in exchange for a signature. Would that be enforceable in the law?

 _What are you talking about, Robin!?_ chastised the same part of her mind. _I was just thinking it! I wasn’t going to actually do it!_ she inwardly rebutted.

Matthew looked horrible.

He was looking at her again with that tragic face, as though nobody on the planet is having a worse day than he was. “I didn’t know it was Sarah.”

 _Oh_.

“I would never hurt Sarah.” he said to her, face imploring as though she was the judge he needed to convince. “Did Tom do it because of what we did? What Sarah and I were doing?”

She was furious. Very, very furious. Somehow what Matthew and Sarah did have now directly affected Cormoran. They only intended to ruin _her_ life, and now the people at that lobby would have to carry the image of Tom Turvey plummeting to his death for the rest of theirs.

She wanted to tell him yes. To say that he may not have doused Sarah with acid or push her through a laundry chute, or goaded Tom Turvey to off himself, but it was his fault. All of it. All of it.

“That Friday at The Viaduct Tavern, you gave your number to a woman.” she started. “You wrote it on a napkin from the bar and handed it to her. They found it on Sarah’s person.”

He nodded, morose.

“What were you saying to each other?”

“Nothing—” he said immediately, a knee-jerk lie to placate the wife.

“Don’t—” she warned. “Don’t fuck with me, Matthew. You don’t need to anymore. I need the truth now.”

“She didn’t say anything.” he insisted, and then he rubbed his eyes with the pad of his hand, as though trying to remember something. “Lounge singer, that she’s a lounge singer. What’s that got to—”

“Lounge singer where?” Robin asked.

“I don’t fucking know. We didn’t talk for very long, alright Rob? And besides, Sar—”

“Sarah arrived? Your mistress arrived in between you chatting up another woman? Tell me Matt, did Sarah tell you?”

Matthew looked at Robin at this question.

Robin could laugh. Robin could _fucking_ laugh.

He was reaching for her again suddenly, face immediately imploring like all the other times he’s fucked up and tried to trap her back to him. “I didn’t mean to, Rob. I _swear_. I didn’t want her preg—”

Robin shook her head. “Christ. She told you that night, did she? And then Monica Bouchard—”

“How’d you—”

“Never mind how I know. Monica Bouchard came to you, and confronted you about not telling her you’re married. And then you drag her out into the curb and dump her. Then what do you do, Matt? Come to me? Beg me to take you back?”

She wanted to spit at him.

“Why do you want to leave without being discharged?” she said to him stonily. Robin felt as though she was wasting precious time, like she should be doing something—anything else—instead of be here, having this conversation with Matthew Cunliffe.

“I can’t stay here anymore. So many things—”

“What are you going to do? Put Tom’s skull back together? Scrape the decayed skin off of Sarah’s face?” He looked stricken, as she had meant to do. “Do everybody a favour Matthew and stay put. You won’t cause any more harm sitting here.”

She started walking out and then walked back. “If you pull this shit again, I’ll sign the psych hold papers. I can do that, I’m still your wife. You haven’t divorced me. I haven’t got time to run here and talk you out of making idiotic decisions. That isn’t my job anymore. I don’t want to do it.”

Robin made for the exit again when Matthew spoke. “Is she going to be alright, Sarah?”

“No, Matt.” Robin replied, her back to him. “She’s ruined.”

She heard him utter a strangled cry. “Is Cormoran here?” he asked.

This made Robin turn around. “What do you mean?”

“Is Cormoran with you?”

For a split second she thought it was his jealousy bubbling up to the surface again, that he was about to insinuate and sling vitriolic assumptions that she’s started sleeping with Cormoran Strike. But the look on his face was not a smug sneer that he was right, or infuriating jealousy that made her feel small. He was _expectant_. He genuinely wanted to see Cormoran, too.

It was then that Robin finally realised that Matthew no longer loved her any more than she did.

It was liberating.

“No one’s found Mo, Matt. She’s been taken.” He looked petrified. “This is what happens to women you love.”

When Robin sped out of Matthew’s hospital room, she ran into who she recognised was Jemima, sidestepping bodily against the wall on impact.

“Oh!” Robin exclaimed, bracing the woman who had hissed. “Shit. Sorry, Jemima. Didn’t see you.”

“It’s alright.” said Jemima, though curtly. She bent down to massage her foot Robin seemed to have trodden on.

She was here _again_. She must be feeling guilty with two of her employees attempting to kill themselves within the same week. Indeed, she looked horrible. But Robin couldn’t spare much thought for Matthew’s boss. She hoped Jemima was riding him about work even on this state. Then again, he might like that. Matthew never turned down an opportunity to brown-nose higher ups.

And so, Robin left University College Hospital, got back in the BMW, and went back home to Cormoran.


	34. "What's the plan?"

 

 

 

Cormoran was falling asleep on Robin’s desk, trying to concentrate and stare at every single person going in and out of The Viaduct Tavern on Friday the 5th. It was dreary work, where the angle was poor, the quality was bad, and the work was repetitive. He can’t even speed up the feed, in case he missed the face he was looking for.

It might be the chair.

Robin’s new chair was very comfortable, inviting him to lay back frequently and think before feeling guilty that he’s wasting time.

He missed Robin. The memory of their morning distracting him and making him smile. He liked that she was game for something like that. She had been the same in that same kitchen too a few days ago. What was it about that tiny kitchen?

 _Ah crap_. He’d missed a few minutes of tape without paying attention. He has to rewind now.

He wished she was back here. They could pick up where they left off. Cormoran imagined Robin wearing that skimpy pair of see-through bra and pants he found with her luggage that morning. He pictured it clearly. It wouldn’t hide a thing.

 _Get a grip, Strike!_ He had to rewind again. He might be watching the same hunched woman walking in The Viaduct Tavern over and over now.

The door opened, and it was like the dreary, dingy office was suddenly cleaner and brighter.

“I’ve brought reinforcements!” Robin announced, walking up to him for a quick kiss hello. Following her were Sam and Andy.

“Don’t you have wives to spend weekends with?” Cormoran retorted, amused but relieved he doesn’t have to do this tedious work alone.

“Me wife’s sister’s in town, didn’t even notice me leave.” said Sam.

“Out with mates.” Andy shrugged, taking a seat on the couch and pulling out his own laptop.

They spent a few minutes divvying up the CCTV work, Cormoran telling them they’re looking for a tall, thin, black woman with long straight hair and a fringe, and looked like Naomi Campbell.

Robin moved to the inner office, working on her own lines of investigation. He went to her after Sam and Andy seemed to finally fall into a groove. He sat by his desk, picking up his stress ball. “How’d it go with Matthew?”

“Great, thanks for asking.” she smiled humourlessly. He bent to kiss the top of her head.

From the laptop on Cormoran’s desk, Robin seemed to be scrolling through Facebook. “Found the Paula and the Olivia Matt said he hooked up with.”

“How?”

“You can search profiles using phone numbers.” said Robin easily.

Cormoran was impressed. He’ll need to know the ins and outs of Facebook, as it seems to be a wealth of information on people.

“Any of them look like they could be the intruder?”

Robin looked thoughtful. “Would you consider this woman’s breasts to be huge?”

Invited to look, Cormoran’s eyes involuntarily drifted to the photo on the screen. The woman, a Paula Sinclair, was blonde and wearing a beige sweater. As for the breast size, well, Cormoran needed a point of comparison. His eyes seemed to have a mind of their own and was drifting towards Robin’s chest before he closed his eyes and looked squarely elsewhere.

“I really can’t say.”

Robin laughed. “You won’t get into trouble, don’t worry. Would you say these women have large breasts?”

“Why?” he whined.

“Okay, the intruder was in a black hoodie, but I just _know_ it’s a woman. But I don’t think she had very large breasts. They’re almost quite flat, actually.”

He would never admit this to Robin, but Cormoran knew that hoodies have a strange way of masking the size of breasts and _I can’t believe this case is going to hinge on this_.

“I think instead of going cross-eyed staring at other women’s breasts, you can just invite them and see for yourself if their body is right, and if they’re limping.”

Robin stood up, resting her arms on Cormoran’s shoulders. “I thought you’d be thrilled that your girlfriend is asking you to appraise other women’s breasts.”

He pulled her closer to him, resting his hands on her derriere and squeezing. “I’m an arse man myself.” he joked.

Robin laughed.

 

* * *

 

The two other women Matthew said he slept with were a Paula Sinclair and an Olivia Madden. Paula was a buxom blonde, whose Facebook alternately shows wholesome photos of her with her primary school class and then of her scantily clad and spread over some sports car’s bonnet. Olivia Madden was to Robin, appallingly young. Apparently on a gap year of binge drinking before she goes to an American university.

Fortunately, both women seem to update Facebook with their every move. Olivia had already posted the pub she was planning to visit that night, and for an open invitation for everyone to come join her. She refreshed Paula’s page and just her luck, there was a new post of her enjoying a cup of coffee at a cafe not too far from the office.

Robin sprung up and went into the outer office. “One of them—one of the women—is at Tamaro’s Cafe right now. We’ve got to go.” she said, already grabbing her coat.

“How’d you know?” Cormoran asked, standing up and joining her, also putting on his coat.

“Facebook. We might not have long if she leaves after she finishes her cup.”

Robin was running down the stairs and heard as Cormoran gave Sam and Andy instructions. She already had the BMW ready when Cormoran finally caught up.

“What’s the plan?” he asked as Robin drove a little speedily through several blocks. “It’s not an international crime cars chase, we can slow down.” he quipped.

But Robin didn’t, and she was parking the car in front of the cafe in record time.

Their mark was by the window. She seemed to be on a date. She was laughing too much and tossing her curled hair as she prettily sipped her coffee. Cormoran was right, it was silly to go by way of breasts. They needed to see if she’d be limping. Her skirt showed un-bandaged and normal looking ankles. She was even wearing wedges. But they wouldn’t have time to go back here for another go around.

“Follow my lead.” she told Cormoran and exited the car.

Her plan was to get Paula Sinclair up and moving.

Once inside the tiny cafe, she held Cormoran’s hand and pulled him to the tight pack of tables for two in the corner by the window. She wrapped her arms around Cormoran’s neck, winked at him, and pulled his face down for a kiss.

She was moving them, and Cormoran, laughing a little against her mouth got the gist and helped out.

Cormoran’s large breadth collided with their little table, spilling their drinks.

Instant uproar.

Robin pulled herself off of Cormoran and made a show to help with the mess they’ve caused. “Sorry! Sorry!” she said, bending down to wipe the spill off the floor with napkins.

The pair on the date had sprung up to evade the hot liquids, and Paula had bent next to her with her own napkins to help clean up. “Sorry about that.” smiled Robin from under the table. Paula smiled back, not a hint on her face that she’s ever seen Robin before. “It’s fine.” she said, voice high and tone friendly. Robin was surprised to find out that like Monica Bouchard, this Paula was also American.

Is that what Matthew likes?

“No harm done.” said Paula, standing up as Robin did.

“Oh, you got a little on your shirt.” said Paula, looking at the hem of Robin’s sweater. She was right, she did get a splash of it on her sweater ( _Serves me right._ ) “I’ll go get more tissues.”

The few steps Paula took to the bar told Robin she was not their suspect. Cormoran, who had laboriously gotten up as he also bent to help wipe some of the spill, squeezed her shoulders. “Let’s go to a different cafe babe. We’ve done enough around here, I think.” he joked in a manner that isn’t entirely him. Robin gave Paula a friendly wave and they went back to the BMW.

“Definitely not her.” said Robin.

Cormoran checked his phone. “We’re on a roll!” he said triumphantly, showing Robin his screen. It was a cropped image of a beautiful and tall woman with long straight hair and a tight dress about to walk into The Viaduct Tavern.

“That’s her?” Robin asked, amazed. “The phone number woman?”

“Fits the description. We can show it to Matthew to be sure.”

She really didn’t want to see him again. Ever, if she could help it. She gave Cormoran a smile. “He was looking for you.”

“Was he?” Cormoran asked, surprised.

“All he could think about was Mo.”

“How’d you feel about that?” Cormoran asked, squeezing her thigh.

Robin sighed and looked at him, cupping his cheek. “Relieved.”

She drove away from the cafe and towards University College Hospital again. “You talk to Matt.”

 

* * *

 

Cormoran realised as he walked towards Matthew Cunliffe’s hospital room that he doesn’t carry much animosity or resentment towards the man. As though it was lessening the further Robin got away from him and more into _his_ arms himself.

He still thought he was a dickhead, of course, and deeply wished he’d fucking divorce Robin already, and thought him a cunt for making things difficult and his _mediocre dick_ —as Monica Bouchard put it—causing all this mess.

Okay, maybe he still hates the guy. Maybe _he’s_ just happy. Infinitely happy. The sort of happy that nobody in the world but Robin could take away and he knew that with her, he was, well, _safe_.

There was commotion coming from his room. A woman yelling.

Cormoran burst into the room to find Monica Bouchard yelling at Matthew as Jemima, thinner, bonier, held her by the waist, keeping her from completely pouncing on the injured man.

Cormoran could hear ‘asshole’ and ‘slag’ and ‘worst thing that’s ever happened to me’ and ‘fucking psycho’ and ‘tiny penis’ and ‘I’ll call the fucking cops’ being hurled around. Cormoran, giving himself a moment to roll his eyes, stepped in front of Monica Bouchard and held her gesticulating wrists, dragging her out into the hall where security was already running towards them and swiftly took her off of Cormoran’s hands. She was still wriggling and screaming at Matthew until the last, calling him names, booming her regret. He couldn’t be sure as she was mostly being carted off, but Cormoran thought he could sense a limp.

 _Shit_.

A choice. He needed to get Matthew’s confirmation, but Monica Bouchard might be limping.

 _Fuck_.

He jogged laboriously after them arriving just in time to join them in the elevators.

“That fucking asshole is going to get me deported!” she said as Cormoran stood next to her. “The cops came looking at me at my work now, I’m probably going to get fired!”

“The cops are going to come for you after that scene back there.” said Cormoran, looking down her leg. Her clinging leggings showed nothing. He chanced it. He knew what he saw. “What happened to your leg?”

She crossed her arms under her large chest, glaring at him. “What’s it to you?”

“Have the cops asked you about Friday?”

She recoiled and repeated, “What’s it to you?”

The elevator doors opened and she was escorted out—resisting the entire time, despite a perceptible limp—by security where a panda car was waiting for her. Considering that she’ll be in custody, and also knowing somehow that she also had nothing to do with this, Cormoran took the elevator back up to Matthew.

He was alone when he went back, informing Cormoran that Jemima went out to “smoke, probably” when he asked.

“Robin said Mo’s been abducted?”

“Yeah.” said Cormoran plainly.

Matthew’s face contorted into a cry. He looked so tragic. He was a tragic man, Matthew Cunliffe.

“We’re trying to find her, Matthew. Cormoran pulled out his phone and showed Matthew the photo of the woman. “This her? The woman you gave your number to?”

He took Cormoran’s phone to press it closer to his face, then nodded.

“You said she said she’s a lounge singer?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, but she said she goes to the Tavern frequently. First time I ever saw her there, though.”

Cormoran’s phone rang in Matthew’s hands. He looked at the screen on reflex, and turned to Cormoran with shock and comprehension on his face.

Cormoran snatched his phone. It was Robin who called, her beaming face smiling at the camera as his face nuzzled into her neck.

“Yeah?” he said, turning away from Matthew.

“I’m being summoned to New Scotland Yard.”

“Okay. I’m coming down. Wait for me.”

Cormoran made for the door and was halfway out when Matthew spoke.

“Has she sucked your dick yet, Strike? She’s very good at that.”

Before Cormoran could register what had been said to him, and what he was doing, he had punched Matthew so hard in the face, he was knocked out.

Livid, but not interested in going down for murder, he checked that he was still breathing before leaving him with his head hung and his left eye darkening.


	35. "How'd he find out?"

 

 

 

When Cormoran got in the car with Robin, he pulled her for a tight hug.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, hugging him back. “What happened in there?”

Cormoran pulled away, but held her hand.

“Matthew confirmed the phone number woman. Told him she’s a lounge singer—don’t know where—but that she’s a regular at the Tavern.” then he sighed. “Monica Bouchard was in there—”

“ _What?”_

“—screaming at him. They were rowing when I arrived. Matthew’s boss, Jemima, was trying to keep her from pouncing on him.”

“What was she saying?”

Cormoran shrugged. “That he was a liar, cheater. That sort of thing. They’ve gone to her place of work. She thinks she’ll get fired over it, worried she’ll be deported.”

“Oh my god.”

“Panda car picked her up. Jemima might’ve called 999 on her. And she’s limping.”

“She’s _limping_?!” said Robin. “D’you think it’s her? The person behind all this?”

“I can’t say for sure if she’ll turn violent, she does seem the type, but she’s not afraid of public confrontations. She doesn’t strike me as someone with a whole lot of forethought.” said Cormoran. “The thing that happened with Sarah, and Monica Andrada, and the intruder— those all requires premeditation.”

Robin drove for awhile, casting a glance at Cormoran who still had that grim look on his face. He lifted his large hand to scratch his nose and Robin saw it. His knuckles were red.

She parked the BMW abruptly on the side of the road.

“You punched him?”

Robin was pissed, not that Matthew got punched (he was overdue for one), but that Cormoran might get in trouble for it. They don’t need this on top of everything else.

Cormoran’s jaw clenched.

“What could he have _possibly_ said that would make you punch him?”

He looked at her. “He knows about us.”

She shrugged. “That just saves me from having to tell him myself. How’d he find out?”

“Picture. Your picture on my phone that pops up.” Cormoran pulled it up on his screen. It was from her party, when she was sat on his lap and he had nuzzled his face in her neck and she just took a photo of them on his phone.

“That’s a nice picture of me. I’m glad he saw that.”

“You wouldn’t be glad if you heard what he said about you.” said Cormoran. She could feel him still fuming.

Robin shook her head. “It isn’t _attractive_ , this fighting.” she said, resuming her drive. “I’m not some sort of fair maiden whose honor needs to be defended. Does your knuckle hurt?”

“You should see the other guy.”

“I hope you didn’t break his face!”

“Black eye.”

Robin huffed. “I _really_ don’t like fighting. I can’t bear it. _Please_ don’t punch any more people, not even if it’s my tit ex-husband.”

With his jaw still clenched and his face still grave and not looking at her, he nodded.

 

* * *

 

The outside of New Scotland Yard was teeming with photographers accosting every car that came through the compound.

“Cormoran Strike!” he heard one reporter as the rest of them converged dangerously close to the BMW. Robin, looked calm and collected, despite reporters on her side taking blinding snaps and calling her by name.

“What brings you to the Met, Mr. Strike?” yelled a reporter, muffled by their rolled up windows. “Investigating a juicy case, Mr. Strike?”

The clear roads after the packed gate was inviting, even if it was New Scotland Yard.

“You’re alright to drive through that?” Robin asked as Cormoran opened the driver’s side door while Robin was still in it.

“Yep.” Cormoran said easily, though inwardly dreading having to drive through the throngs of people again. He wasn’t afraid, he just wasn’t sure no feet would be trodden on when he backs into them.

Robin looked unsure.

“I’ll be fine. It’s my car.” he reminded her. She smiled and pulled at him for a kiss. “Get off my car.” he joked and she chuckled.

They switched places, with Robin standing and looking at Cormoran who put the seatbelt on. “Tell me everything, okay?”

“Will do. We won’t be long, I reckon. I’ll be back here to pick you up.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just take the—”

“I’ll be back here to pick you up.” he repeated.

She smiled. “Okay. See you later.”

“See you later.”

He watched Robin disappear into the big building’s revolving doors before driving off back to Denmark Street.

Andy had already left when he arrived, with Sam playing Minesweeper on Robin’s computer to kill the time.

“Wife not looking for you?” Cormoran asked.

He shrugged. “Said to tell you to have me back home by midnight.”

Cormoran chuckled. “I can do that. C’mon.”

The plan was to track down this Olivia Madden, a party girl who announced to the entire internet that she intended to get wasted at this club called Privé and invited all the ‘hotties’ on her friends list to buy her a drink.

If she was partying, she likely wasn’t limping. But maybe she was the sort who unless bedridden, would be up for a bender. Cormoran knew this was a fool’s errand, but neither he nor Robin will rest unless they could rule her out completely. She was the last of their errant leads and it’s good to whittle down the suspects list than leave even this unlikely stone unturned.

It was only half past six, but the bouncer let them in after a generous tip. The club’s interior was dark, full of strobe lights and the house music was loud and agitating. Cormoran thought this wasn’t good for his own personal triggers, but it was still practically empty, and he couldn’t hear a human sound.

“Christ, is this how people get off these days?” Sam yelled into his ear as he grabbed an overpriced pint for him and Cormoran. “Seems easier to meet at a pub!”

Olivia, who Cormoran rightly assumed was a serious partier, was already in one of the booths making out with some man. She was scantily clad in a tiny dress that was riding up with her every movement. Her artificially tanned legs was free of blemish or bandages, and Cormoran doubted she’d be wearing such thin and high stiletto heels if she’d been limping. Robin described it to be noticeable enough that it wouldn’t heal completely just a few days after the fall.

Cormoran knew Olivia wasn’t their girl, but watched as the young woman straddled the man she was making out with and grinding into him as though they weren’t in public.

“Jesus Christ!” Sam yelled, observing the same sight. “I hope my daughter’s lesbian.”

Cormoran sniggered. “I think even lesbians give each other lap dances, Sam.” he patted his subcontractor on the back.

“Having a daughter really makes you think,” Sam yelled. “Makes you worry about all the pricks in the world.”

Olivia had stood up sturdily and ably on her long legs and stiletto heels, turn her back on her companion and proceeded to—what even Cormoran knew— _twerk_.

“D’you want kids, Strike?” Sam yelled into his ear. It was odd that Sam was brooding about men and women and babies at such an establishment, with such a show before them.

“No.” he said immediately.

“Never have kids! You’ll never stop thinking about them!”

“She’s clear.” Cormoran yelled back. “Let’s get out of here.”

And so they did.

Robin hasn’t gotten in touch yet, which wasn’t unusual if she was still being interviewed. He texted her that Olivia wasn’t limping and that her ‘body wasn’t right’. Cormoran doubted that even the surprising magic of hoodies to hide ample bosoms would hide those D-cups. “Going to Tavern now.” he typed.

The Viaduct Tavern was packed that Saturday night that Cormoran and Sam had no place but the bar to sit. It didn’t matter, they weren’t planning on staying long.

The bartender was far too busy to ask about the photo, so Cormoran and Sam split up to see if she was around.

There were far too many people, the place was far too packed. He didn’t really like the vibe inside, and some weird dread was creeping all over him that Robin has yet to get in touch. Why are they taking so long asking their questions?

He had half a mind to just leave and try the bartender again midday on Monday when he remembered something.

He nearly slapped his head that he didn’t think of it immediately. Might have saved him money _and_ time.

He exited the premises and walked by the smokers, intending to smoke himself. He wouldn’t ordinarily forget such useful information, but he has been feeling scatterbrained lately, and with his mind actively choosing to store more pleasant, Robin-related thoughts in his brain for easier access.

He rang his brother, Al, who answered after two rings.

“Hey bruv!” he said enthusiastically, with that mangled accent of his. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Not disturbing, am I?” Cormoran asked, making an effort to be friendly as to not seem so obvious he only called because he needed something.

“No, no. Just getting a little R & R, you know.”

Cormoran remembered that Al has never worked a day in his life. “That’s good.” he replied, with effort.

“Let’s _vacay_ together one of these days. Been to the Maldives? Dad’s got—”

“Al, are you still an investor at The Viaduct Tavern at Newgate St.?”

“Why? Got another mad killer to find, bruv?”

“Just wondering if you could put me in touch with the barkeep. Got a quick question for him.”

“Not sure which one is on shift, but—”

“Ginger, anchor tattoo on his forearm.” said Cormoran, who peered into the window to catch a glimpse of the bartender.

“That’s Joe.” said Al. _Thank Christ_. “Need his number?”

“I’m here now. If you could just tell him to step out for a quiet word, I’d appreciate it Al.”

“Consider it done.”

They said their goodbyes and Cormoran feeling productive, allowed himself the length of his cigarette before walking back inside.

He already noticed Joe the bartender take a sneaky peek at his phone in the middle of being inundated by orders. Assuming that was likely Al, he headed back up to the bar.

“Al got in touch?” Cormoran asked. The bartender gave him a quick look before taking someone else’s order. “Won’t be long. Not even a minute.” Cormoran promised.

The bartender seemed to consider this, but Cormoran knew he was going to do it. Al was his boss, he was Al’s brother. He’d assume Cormoran was one of Jonny Rokeby’s other children, and much as he wished it was irrelevant, it would carry some cachet.

“Alright.” the bartender nodded as though it was a great generosity on his part. He gestured towards his companion that he was stepping out and followed Cormoran outside of the premises.

“Just want to know if you know this woman.” said Cormoran cutting to the chase, showing the bartender the photo.

“That’s Sapphire.”

“She a regular?”

“Yeah. Tuesdays and Fridays usually. She sings at the Oriole Bar most nights from what I know.”

“Know her?”

The bartender shrugged. “Just a chat if it’s slow enough in there,” he gestures to the pub.

“Are you usually on shift Fridays?” Cormoran asked. “What about the 5th?”

Joe knotted his eyebrows. “The cops have asked about that night. Are you also a cop?”

“No.” said Cormoran. “Just asking if you were there that night.”

Joe’s expression changed, as though he figured something out. “My mate said The Sun paid him a hundred quid to talk.”

He thought Cormoran was a journalist. If only he wasn’t currently skint and they haven’t established a flow going, Cormoran would have gone to an ATM and not have said what he said next, “I can ring Al up again—”

“No!” said the bartender. It was an empty threat. Cormoran had nothing on this superfluous bartender, but it was the nature of employer and employee relationships that there was bound to be something Joe didn’t want his boss to know. “What do you need to know?”

“What the cops were asking about.”

Joe shrugged. “Just about the Finance bloke and what he was up to that night.”

“What was he up to that night?”

“Is he famous or something? Son of somebody?”

“He’s nobody.” said Cormoran, enjoying saying it. “But what did he do that night?”

“All I told the police was that he was with some blonde, and then this dark-haired woman with the tits came screaming at him.” the memory made the bartender chuckle.

“Did you see the man interact with this woman in any way? With Sapphire?”

“Yeah!” said the bartender, and Cormoran knew he’s the only person who has thought to ask. “I thought it was _weird_! Sapphire is a fucking ten, you know? Usually its men who come fawning all over her, but _she_ chatted _him_ up.”

“Sapphire approached the man?”

“Yeah! Didn’t even think he was all that. Looked like the rest of his finance pals.”

“This was before or after he dragged the dark-haired woman out of the pub?”

“No, before. He came in here by himself earlier. I remember because he was looking for some shit ginger beer brand we didn’t carry. Smug about it, too.”

“Did you hear what Sapphire and the man were talking about?”

“No, just the usual chit chat, I’m sure. Sapphire was flirty. He asked for a napkin and saw him write his number down and hand it to her.”

“Then what happened? How did they part?”

The bartender shrugged again. “Wasn’t really keeping track. What the fuck do I care, you know? All sorts hook up around here.”

“You haven’t told the police this?”

The bartender looked alarmed. “Was I supposed to? They didn’t ask.”

“Not if they didn’t ask, no.” said Cormoran but his mind was going a mile a minute. Carver presumably asked Matthew about the number, who gave them Sapphire’s description. Since Sapphire was clearly not the woman attacked, they assumed Matthew gave his number to someone else and was just too drunk to realise.

He pulled up his phone. No contact from Robin. He called Sam instead.

“Can’t find her, Strike. Too many people.”

“That’s alright. Come out here.”

“Can I go back to work?” the bartender asked him as he hung up on Barclay.

Cormoran asked for his number, handed him a tenner (because it was the last of his money that was not loose change) and let him go.


	36. "You're brilliant, aren't you Miss Ellacott?"

 

 

 

There was police tape all around the spiral staircase of New Scotland Yard’s lobby. Robin tried not to imagine Tom Turvey from high up, tiny figure growing and growing until he went splat on the floor.

A young woman with short red wavy hair met Robin at the lobby. “Rachel Grainger.” she said, shaking her hand. “I’ve taken over from Roy.”

Robin was surprised. This Rachel Grainger looked about her age. She smiled as if reading her mind. “The powers that be upstairs is keen to wrap the Sarah Shadlock case up, as I’m sure you are Miss Ellacott. Right this way.”

She was led to the familiar interrogation rooms area. “Shall we go inside?” DI Grainger suggested to Robin, opening the door as though they were only there for a job interview.

DI Grainger was beautiful and had kind of a doll-like face which Robin thought either made her very green or an absolute shark. She smiled a lot, ingratiating herself with Robin. Not one to underestimate women, she knew she was being handled, and knew that if this unknown detective was brought in suddenly in the aftermath of Tom Turvey jumping to his death, then she would be sharper and trickier to deal with than Roy Carver.

Robin suddenly felt nervous.

“Would you like some water? Tea?” she offered, adapting still the air of an HR manager talking to a prospective hire. Robin declined. She sat opposite her on the long metal table and opened a case file as well as a leather Moleskine notebook. Robin could tell that the case file was the Sarah Shadlock one, as it had been opened to the photo taken of her after she had been found.

“Okay,” said Grainger, still in that friendly tone of voice. “We already have your statement for until 10:30 pm, Friday the 5th, what about for the rest of the evening?”

“Uh, I was just home.” said Robin, feeling a little glad that she doesn’t have to say this bit to Roy Carver.

“Alone?” asked Grainger, not looking at her but making neat notes on her notebook.

“No.”

“Who else was there with you?” she asked, smiling expectantly at her. She adopted an air of someone she might be friends with, as though they were exchanging homework notes at uni.

“C-Cormoran.” said Robin. It still wasn’t easy to say, knowing something so private and cherished is part of official evidence.

DI Grainger wrote, and narrated her writing as she did so. “Cormoran Strike… You were together the whole night?” she asked.

“Yes. Until 11:30 the next morning.” Robin replied. She knew she should only answer questions directly asked, but if it speeds things along, if she could get away from DI Grainger faster…

“In bed?” she asked matter-of-factly.

Robin tried to fight the feeling of being incensed at the nosiness of this line of questioning, but she knew it was pertinent. If Cormoran had been elsewhere in the apartment, a case could be made for her leaving the flat through a different exit.

“Yes.” said Robin, attempting to be as stone-cold and matter-of-fact as the woman on the other side of the desk.

“In bed. 11:30 next day.” Grainger repeated as she wrote it down on her notebook. Her writing was so neat and tidy, Robin reckoned she could read it if she leaned over the desk a bit.

Grainger smiled at Robin as she closed her notebook and leaned back on her chair. “There.”

Were they done?

“I read all about the Chiswell case—” DI Grainger started, pronouncing it ‘Chiswell’ “and I thought you were so awesome!”

Robin didn’t quite know how to respond. She was being friendly, but they were still inside the interrogation room.

“I mean, twenty-seven and already an ace detective! There’s not a lot of us like that.” she said. “I’m a bit older, I guess. I’m turning twenty-nine in a few weeks. But _you_! What you did in that barge, how you got a nutter to talk until you’re found! Really very impressive.”

Robin was feeling more and more uneasy. She doesn’t like this at all. She felt as though she was being cornered.

“Did you read that piece _The Sunday Times_ wrote about you?”

“No.” said Robin honestly. She heard about it endlessly. A copy of the spread was framed at her parents’ house. She didn’t grant any interviews, but the journalist had cobbled together enough quotes from other people and even a few phrases she gave as she tried side-stepping reporters accosting her outside her flat and the office. She had been told it was favourable to her and the agency, but she detested that sort of attention.

“You should. It was very well-written. Very informative.”

“I’m sure it was.”

“Temped at offices before landing on Cormoran Strike’s agency as a secretary, promoted to salaried partner after a year and a half, named partner after a year more.”

Robin shut her mouth.

“The best private detective agency in the metropolis. Run by a decorated SIB officer… and a uni dropout.”

Robin just stared at her. She knew there was good reason for her not to trust this new woman that suddenly came into the case.

She smiled at Robin, tapping the point of her pen on the metal table, making torturous racket.

“You’re brilliant, aren’t you Miss Ellacott?” said Grainger. “Exceptional. I’m exceptional, too. Dropped out of uni, applied to Quantico, did that for a couple of years, recruited into some intelligence agencies, got a little bored, and finally Interpol. But that’s more of a consultation thing.”

When Robin still just stared at her, she continued. “But what I really like, are mysteries.” she said with a flourish. “This isn’t a very good one. Woman found nearly dead thrown down a laundry chute.” Grainger flipped the case folder so Sarah’s ruined face is right under Robin’s nose. “The Met spends days trying to identify her… one look and bam! Robin Ellacott recognised it’s Sarah Shadlock!”

Robin wished Ilsa were here. She’d put a stop to this. Robin knew where this was going.

“It makes sense, really, that you’d recognise her. You two have history don’t you? Your husband didn’t just pick a random tart down the street. He’s a special kind of arsehole, your Matthew. Squeaky clean but prize dickhead.” She gave Robin a small sympathetic sigh. “Dated a few of those myself.”

She leaned back on her chair again, crossing her legs. “Don’t worry, you’ve been very good. You’ve done really well. Carver thinks he had you with that doodle he coerced from Shadlock. Have you seen it?” she asked, flipping into a demeanour of a gossipy friend. “It doesn’t even look like ‘Robi’. Could have been ‘Ross’, or ‘Boss’, or ‘Rosi’. Carver _is_ funny, isn’t he? I think you broke him a little bit, with that Brockbank case. Rants about it constantly.”

Robin had a gun to her face the last time she was made to sit still like this, and she was more afraid of making a move _now_ than at that barge.

“You don’t have to worry about him now. He’s under probation.” said DI Grainger easily. “The way he questioned Sarah Shadlock got him sued. He really is silly. I’ve told him he needs a vacation.”

Grainger flipped the case file. It was a photo of her at the Viaduct Tavern, Tom Turvey sitting next to her.

“It was really funny how we got this, do you want to know?” Grainger teased. She pointed at the two Americans Robin befriended that Sunday afternoon. “Those two are _vloggers_. Do you know what those are? They have a little ghost show on YouTube. It’s quite funny, you should check them out. Anyway, we requested for the bar’s floor plan and it was taking too long, so we turned to Google just in case the place is old enough that there would be blueprints online. There isn’t but then there was this video called, ‘Is The Viaduct Tavern’ Haunted?’, so we played it. Just for a laugh, you know? And well, _spoilers_ , it wasn’t haunted, but it did catch this.”

Robin wanted to speak, to explain, but she knew without a lawyer that would not be wise.

“Why would you be speaking to Tom Turvey, Miss Ellacott?”

She knew how it looked, that it was some sort of conspiracy. But if they had contact with the Americans, surely they’d tell the police that they in fact had to shoo Tom away because he was bothering her.

“The Americans swore up and down he was just a git trying to cop a feel,” said Grainger as though she read Robin’s mind. “But they didn’t know you two knew each other. Says it looked like you’d never met before.” Grainger smiled again. “God, you’re so smart! You’re why I picked this case, did you know that? Because you’re all over it but somehow, we can’t pin jackshit on you. It’s incredible.” She was shaking her head, astounded.

“We can pin the Sarah Shadlock attack on Tom Turvey, we can pin the Monica Andrada disappearance on Martin Ellacott—”

“ _Martin?_ ” Robin couldn’t help it.

Rachel Grainger grinned. “Eric Wardle is a friend of yours, isn’t he?” she asked. “I thought he was a self-involved prick, but he was quite generous in saying the enhanced call came from Strike & Ellacott Investigative Services. That was nice of him, giving credit where it was due.”

Grainger knotted her eyebrows. “So I listened to it, and listened to it, and _listened_ to it and I’m not too sure she was saying ‘thirsty’. Because it was faint in the tape as though it was happening in a different room, but dehydrated people’s voices don’t carry through walls. They don’t carry on full conversations before they croaked ‘thirsty’. That’s _weird_.”

She pulled out her phone and played Mo begging ‘Please’, her indistinct murmurs, and then ‘thirsty’. Over and over like a loop.

“Is she saying thirsty? Fiddling with tech isn’t my department, but I was told it could be doctored pretty easily. Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, _Marty, Marty, Marty_.”

Robin was petrified at this. If she’s pinning Mo’s disappearance on Martin--

“You’re brother’s not very bright, Miss Ellacott. Not like you. Lied to the police about meeting Miss Andrada, deleting evidence from his phone. You should have taught him better.”

Robin gave a little gasp, fingers to her lips.

“D’you want to hear my theory?” Rachel Grainger beamed at her. “I think this is just revenge.” she sighed. “Boring motivation, but stunning execution, Miss Ellacott. Can’t pin a single thing on you. Not a thing. You’ve actually been very helpful, telling us it’s Shadlock to get Tom Turvey into custody, telling DI Ekwensi the intruder was an injured woman so we go looking for an injured woman—who is it really? Was it Martin? Sending us the enhanced voicemail of Monica Andrada begging that she’s thirsty. You’ve had the Met looking at everywhere but you.”

She smiled again. “Drove Carver crazy enough to get himself benched, too. Now I _know_ you didn’t do _that_ on purpose but that was brilliant irony. Don’t worry dear, I’m pretty sure you’ll get off scott free. You’ve been exceptional, truly. I mean, I’m still gonna try to get your psycho arse out of the streets, but right now you’re free to go.”

Robin didn’t move.

“Seriously.” said Grainger. “I only really needed your alibi for the rest of the Friday night attack. I figured you wouldn’t be dumb enough to do it yourself, but I had to ask. Protocol, you know.” she shrugged. “I’m actually glad your alibi is ‘fucking Cormoran Strike’ because that’s as iron clad as you can get.”

A knock on the door. “Come in!” Grainger practically chirped. A uniformed officer entered and whispered something on Grainger’s ear which only made her smile. Robin watched the officer leave them alone again.

“They want me to tell you that you can go back to Earl’s Court.” said Rachel. “We looked for the hydrochloric acid but couldn’t find it. I mean, I told them—”

“You can’t do that without a warrant.” said Robin.

Grainger smiled again. “Why would we serve _you_ a warrant, you’ve been perfect! There were a few party drugs in your roommate’s room, but nothing a hefty fine and some community service couldn’t fix. Anyway, I told them not to bother because you’re too brilliant to keep it in your house, but they insisted, so I guess it was lucky they found due cause for a search.”

Rachel stared at her, as if trying to read her mind. “Where is it Robin?” she asked intently. “Is it at Tom’s house? His office? He’s a very boring suspect. Buying the acid with his business expense account, booking the room at the Malmaison under his own name, and just making all sorts of obvious mistakes. But you’d be glad to know he died not giving you up.” she smiled again. “You’re not hard to fall for, are you? That whole girl next door thing you’ve got going. I bet Cormoran Strike will also die defending you.”

Rachel finally stood up and walked to the door, opening it for her. “You’ve behaved admirably, Miss Ellacott. Didn’t give me anything, didn’t speak. A worthy adversary.”

Robin finally sat up and left the room briskly. Cormoran was already there, waiting patiently and looking up at her, glad to see her. She bolted for the bathroom.


	37. "Am I really going to get arrested?"

 

 

 

Cormoran ran after Robin into the Ladies where she made for a cubicle and vomited into a toilet bowl. He rubbed at her back and she jerked her shoulder for him to get away. He pulled his hand off, surprised.

“What happened?” he asked. “What did she say?”

She was sobbing now and shaking. She would have fallen against the cubicle wall if Cormoran hadn’t caught her. “What did she say?” he asked again, cradling her in his arms to keep her upright.

“They think--they think it’s Martin that took Mo.” she said, barely coherent with her sobs. “They think I’m behind all of it.”

“ _What?”_

Two uniformed officers entered the Ladies, telling him DI Rachel Grainger was asking after him. “Unless you fuckers are about to arrest either of us, we’re going!” he bellowed.

Robin was inconsolable, telling him what Rachel Grainger had insinuated during their conversation in between the sobs. They thought that she used Cormoran as alibi, somehow duped Tom Turvey to attacking Sarah Shadlock, somehow duped Martin to kidnap Mo Andrada. Robin said they could definitely pin the Sarah attack on Tom, and would be searching his place for the acid.

“They think I doctored the voice mail!” she said as she cried. “Cormoran, I think they think Martin has her. She knew he lied about meeting Mo last Wednesday. They think I lied about the intruder being a woman. They think that was Martin, too.”

“Jesus fuck!” Cormoran was trying to concentrate on the wheel as he put his arms on Robin’s back, rubbing it. He knew they had absolutely nothing on Robin, but it wouldn’t be hard to build a case against Martin now. They had no real time frame for Mo Andrada’s abduction. If they could find a window of time where Martin was unaccounted for that Monday, that could be enough. He was already facing obstruction charges, blatantly lying about when they last met.

There was no time. They had no more time.

“Give me your phone.” he told her.

“What?” Robin asked, sniffling.

“Your phone. Dial Martin.”

She did so.

He took the phone from her and waited until Martin picked up. “What?” said Martin’s voice, already sounding agitated.

“Where are you?”

“Who the fuck—Cormoran?”

“Where are you Martin?”

“Why?” Martin whined, it was agitating to Cormoran’s ears.

“Get to Denmark Street now, Martin! Now!” he yelled.

“Wha—you don’t tell me—” Martin protested.

“I haven’t got time to argue. You’ll be arrested for Mo being missing. Denmark Street. Now.” Cormoran hung up, dropping Robin’s phone in her seat and he groped for his phone, dialling Ilsa, cancelling dinner, giving her a head’s up about Martin Ellacott.

“Jesus flying fuck!” Cormoran boomed, finding a thick swath of reporters on their doorstep.

He groped the back of his car, pulling a dirty face towel and handing it to Robin. “We have to get in now, okay?” he told her gently as he exited his car and walked briskly to walk Robin up into the landing as she covered her face with the towel. She knew that photos of her bereft wouldn’t be good for the gossip rags.

Cormoran tried to contain himself as he let Robin manoeuvre a little wobbly up the steps, not wanting to hold her any more than he could help with all the cameras. The papers catching on to a relationship would be catastrophic, too, and something he didn’t want to think about in light of the missing woman they have to find.

The super-injunction would keep them from even insinuating he was there when Tom Turvey died even if they knew he had been, but photographing him in and out of New Scotland Yard meant asking him what he was doing there (without directly asking about Turvey) was fair game.

Arrogant it may make him to think so, he wished he wasn’t famous.

When he finally closed the building’s doors to their questions about what he was doing at New Scotland Yard, he ran up to Robin whose face was puffy but no longer crying. “Martin.” she said, voice still shaky.

“They don’t know him, they’ll let him through.” Cormoran assured her.

She crawled into his bed, bent in a fetal position and trembling. He knew Rachel Grainger by reputation. A ‘baby genius’ as his friend Hardacre once described, very sharp and a shark, she had her pick of intelligence agencies but liked solving international crimes vs spying for whichever country paid the most. It was unnatural that she would be brought in on something so domestic. She was a big picture thinker, and it was deadly for this case that she was applying that same thinking to something so local. She thinks there’s a mastermind behind everything because that’s her training, her experience. What was the Met playing at?

He laid next to Robin, still fully clothed, just rubbing his large hands all over her, willing her to calm down a bit. It was a lot, to be told that she was responsible for very serious things and taunting her with her brother going to jail for abduction—and if they didn’t solve it in time—murder.

He heard his front door open. Martin arrived.

“Martin’s here.” he whispered to her bent back. He pushed himself up to look over her, look at her face over her shoulder. She seemed to be falling asleep, or trying to. “I’ll go talk to Anstis, ask what’s going on. I’ll come right back.” he kissed her shoulder.

Martin glared at him when he emerged from the bedroom, helping himself to some leftover pasta he found in the fridge. It amazed Cormoran that he felt a bit fond of Martin despite not knowing him well at all. Protective, even. As though his love for Robin was on overflow and spilling onto her brother.

“Can we talk for a moment?” he asked Martin, voice calm and even. He was given a nod and they sat on the two dining chairs by the table (he had scrubbed it vigorously while Robin was in the shower, and tried not to think about how it now has imprinted on his memory).

“Am I really going to get arrested?” asked Martin, voice small. Cormoran wasn’t sure how old he was, really. Maybe a year or two younger than Robin. He seemed younger still now, looking scared like that.

“We’re trying very hard to find Mo, and who’s been doing all this, but the police has no leads other than—”

“What if I go back to Masham?”

“They can find you in Masham.” said Cormoran, trying to be patient. “We’re trying to get ahead of it, but if we can’t, it’s likely that you will get arrested.”

“I haven’t done—”

“It doesn’t look good, Martin. They’re desperate to find her now, too, and with nowhere to look, they’ll look at you.”

“But I won’t be able to tell them anything!” Martin whined.

“ _Listen!_ Just stay put, alright? I’m going to sort some things out tonight. Just stay here with Robin and don’t go in and out of the flat. There are reporters around. They might already have gotten your photo. The police will end up here ifthey can’t find you at your usual places. When they do—”

“Can’t I hide out for awhile? Just until you find her?”

Cormoran shook his head. “No! They know that you met Mo for sex last Wednesday. They know you’ve deleted the voice mail.”

“But only because I’ve sent you lot a copy!”

“That doesn’t matter! It doesn’t look good!” It was hard to level with Martin. Cormoran was starting to appreciate why this particular brother was difficult for Robin to communicate with. “If— _when_ the police come, don’t make a fuss, okay? Don’t say a word.” Cormoran tried to catch Martin’s eye and attention. “Martin. Do not say a word. Not one word, understand?”

“Not even to—”

“Not even for _anything_. No words. Literally don’t say a word. Got that?”

“But what if I need—?”

“They’re going to give you a phone call. When they do, call this number.” Cormoran handed him Ilsa’s card. “That’s your lawyer. Our mate Ilsa. You’ve met her. Talk to only her. Got that? Call her. Don’t call Robin, don’t call me or your brothers or your parents. Call Ilsa.”

“Okay.” said Martin timidly.

“Martin, call Ilsa!” he boomed just to make sure he understood.

“Alright, jeez! I’ll call Ilsa!” Martin whined, petulant.

“Don’t leave the flat tonight, got it?”

He nodded.

“Promise me you won’t leave Robin alone tonight.”

“I promise.”

And with that, and with hope that Martin can be trusted to keep his word, Cormoran left the flat.

When Richard Anstis opened the door to his house, he looked about as pissed as Cormoran was.

“Could’ve done with a head’s up they’re bringing in the big dogs, Rich.” said Cormoran without preamble.

His friend (former friend?) looked immediately incensed. “I don’t know what you think this is Strike, but I don’t owe you anything.”

“Why have they got Interpol interviewing Robin, eh?”

“Grainger isn’t with Interpol. She’s just consulting.”

“On a domestic case? Doesn’t she chase around international assassins?”

“Carver called her in. He’s got—”

“He’s got an axe to grind with Robin, yeah, yeah. So your lot sacks him and he gets to choose who picks up where he left off? How does that work?”

“They like the idea of Grainger. Good for publicity. I’m sure you know why we’d need some good publicity just now.”

“Why isn’t she looking at actual fucking leads instead of bullying Robin—”

“Christ!” Anstis exclaimed, almost moved to laugh. “You’re here because your girlfriend got _interrogated_? Jesus Christ and I thought you had a point!”

Cormoran wanted to punch him.

“Listen, Bob. The drugs bust you gave me was just enough for them to let me keep my job. They’re all keeping a close eye on us now, knowing we’re mates with you. Saving my life gets you far with me, very very far and you know that—but I have other lives depending on me keeping this job.”

“And what about the missing woman? Grainger is barking up the wrong tree with Martin Ellacott! No one’s bothering to look for the actual culprit!”

“Yeah well, Grainger pivots quick enough. She likes this theory right now. No one’s going to convince her otherwise unless—”

“She’s handed the actual criminal on a silver platter?” Cormoran interjected, trying to contain his anger for the sake of children he knew would be sleeping upstairs.

“Unless she gets evidence to the contrary.”

“This is already assault and abduction, Rich. Murder’s next.”

The man just shrugged.

Cormoran slumped, hanging his head. “Whoever this is, they’re after Robin next, Rich.” and then downright begging, “Please. _Please_ , if there’s _anything_ —-”

Anstis sighed, holding Cormoran by the shoulder. “I already gave you what I have, Bob. They’re not giving me anymore.”

Cormoran nodded, knowing there was nothing more to be expected from Richard Anstis for this case, or ever. He moved to walk out of his house where his family upstairs slept safe and sound.

“They’re picking Martin Ellacott up tomorrow afternoon. Make sure he has a lawyer with him. A good one.” Anstis called after him.

Cormoran took his notepad from his pocket and flipped to the list of ideas Robin had. ‘Talk to napkin woman’ was on top of his scribbles. If he hurried, he might just catch Sapphire at the tail end of her set if she was working that night.

And so, he got in his car and set off for Oriole Bar.


	38. "What's wrong, Rob?"

 

 

 

Robin woke up with a splitting headache, as what always happened when she slept while crying or worried.

Last night, it was both.

She turned around in bed, extending her hand to get a feel of Cormoran. But she was alone.

“What time is it?” she groaned to herself, looking out the window. It was gloomy and drizzling. It could be very early morning or very late afternoon and she wouldn’t know. His walls had no clocks on them, and she couldn’t remember the last place she put her phone.

“Corm?” she called out to the outer room. She heard the shower.

It was very disorientating not knowing the time.

She saw a phone on the dining table. The crack on the screen told her it was Mart’s. She looked around. _Where’s Martin?_ He must be someplace, the camp bed was still laid out.

Robin tapped the screen. 11:49. It was almost noon.

“Corm, have you seen my phone?” she said loudly, hoping it would carry into the bathroom. Indecipherable noise.

She took Martin’s phone and called her own with it. It was ringing, but she couldn’t hear it anywhere in the flat. Did she leave it in the office?

And then she remembered. Cormoran used it to call Martin last night and chucked it on her lap afterwards. Must’ve slipped somewhere in the BMW.

She took one of his joggers and wore it over her pants, and reached for the key hook by the door, but the keys to the BMW weren’t there.

She peered over the window. There were still press outside. Four or five. But no BMW.

Martin better not have taken Cormoran’s car!

The shower door finally opened and Robin turned around. Martin emerged, fully dressed but hair still wet.

Sudden, inexplicable panic.

“Morning sleeping beauty.” said Martin, grabbing the phone from Robin’s hands and plopping on the couch.

“Mart, where’s Cormoran?” Robin asked, fighting the rising, almost debilitating dread creeping up her throat like bile. Her brother only shrugged. “Said he was going to take care of a few things, told me to stay put.”

“When did he say that?”

“Last night, when I arrived.”

“You mean he hasn’t been back all night?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What about this morning?” Robin asked.

“I don’t think so either. Didn’t he tell you where he was going?”

Cormoran didn’t come home. She knew in her gut he would never do that without reason. He’d get in touch with her. Somehow, he’d let her know where he was. She _knew_ that.

“What’s the matter?” Martin was looking at her with panic on his face and she knew he was mirroring her sudden distress.

“Need to borrow your phone.” said Robin, holding out her hand. Martin gave it to her immediately. “What’s wrong Rob?”

Robin called the office landline, knowing it will divert to Cormoran’s mobile. Just ringing. “C’mon. Pick up, pick up.” she said, anxious. “Corm, pick up.”

Unattended, said the operator. _Fuck_. She turned around the flat, as though some crevice would give her the answer. Cormoran’s been missing— _no—_ she hasn’t heard from Cormoran in maybe fourteen or fifteen hours. Where would he go?

She closed her eyes, holding a finger to shush Martin who seemed intent on speaking. What did he say last night? What did he last do? She remembered his soothing hand rubbing her side, calming her. And then Martin arrives and she could just feel his weight against her shoulder.

 _“I’ll talk to Anstis_ ,” she remembered his voice, and she held the spot on her arm where he last kissed her.

He went to Richard Anstis.

Robin dressed quickly, ignoring Mart’s questions of where she was going. “Stay put, Mart. If the police comes for you, call Ilsa. Call Ilsa, okay?”

“ _What_? I’m just meant to stay here like a sitting duck?” Martin asked, aghast.

Robin stopped her frantic leaving and faced her brother. “It’ll be worse if you make them look for you. Please, _please_ just cooperate. _Please_ Martin. _Please_.”

“Alright!” said her brother. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to go find Cormoran! Call—”

“Call Ilsa, I know!” Martin called after her as she shut the door to the apartment, not realising that Robin had nicked his phone.

The Land Rover was at Earl’s Court, and she didn’t have 30 minutes to waste to go and retrieve it. She didn’t have anybody’s phone number, and as she ran to evade reporters on her tail, she searched the New Scotland Yard website for an office phone line, or a hotline. None for Richard, but there was one for Vanessa’s.

 _Let her be at work, let her be at work._ It was a secretary who pleasantly told her she will be put through.

“Robin, it’s—it’s not a good time, right now.” said Vanessa, voice quiet and curt.

“I just need Richard Anstis’s address, Van. Please. I think Cormoran’s missing.”

“ _What?”_ said Vanessa on the other end. “Hold on.” she heard shuffling and then Vanessa gave her the address. Robin repeated it out loud to remember, ducking into an alley.

“What do you mean Cormoran’s missing?”

“He didn’t come home last night.” said Robin, swallowing the panic that felt like an actual lump in her throat. “Said he was going to talk to Anstis—” but the call dropped abruptly. _Shit_.

Robin hailed a cab, repeated Anstis’ address and she tried to contain the overwhelming desire to tell him to floor it.

Robin has actually never met Richard Anstis before, but he looked at her like he recognised her. “What are you doing here?” he asked, eyes shifting from down the street as though waiting for someone else to pounce at him.

“Is Cormoran here?” Robin asked, trying not to think about how it must look, her asking her boyfriend’s mate where he had gone.

This surprised Anstis. “N-no. He’s not at his flat?”

“Told me he was coming to see you, and that he’d be back.” said Robin.

“Come in. Come inside.” said Richard, opening his door to her because it started to rain.

Richard Anstis told her what they had talked about last night.

“He didn’t give any indication of where he was going next?” Robin asked, feeling more desperate by the second. He didn’t know where Cormoran was, but she knew he was in trouble.

Anstis shook his head. “If I know Cormoran, he’ll try to solve this himself. Find the actual person behind it.”

Robin knew he was right, but it only made her feel worse. He could have run across the person behind it by now. They could have him tied up or hurt or…

They didn’t talk last night about what happened to the leads they were chasing, but Sam was there. Robin practically ran to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m heading to one of our subcontractors. He was with Cormoran last night.”

“I’ll take you.” Anstis offered.

Not in any position to turn down help, she nodded. “Thank you.”

Sam Barclay was at the window rocking his toddler when Robin pulled up with Anstis. “Is that Samuel Barclay?” said Anstis, but Robin was already out of the car and knocking on Sam’s front door.

“Heya, Rob! What brings you here?”

“I need to know what you and Cormoran did yesterday, what you’ve found out.”

Martin’s phone was ringing in her pocket.

It was an unknown number, but she answered it anyway. “Hello?”

“Is this Robin?” Robin recognised it was Ilsa.

“Yes.”

“Robin! I’m just calling to say that I’m with Martin now. He says you can’t get a hold of Corm?”

“Yeah, I—” she swallowed again, clearing her throat. She mustn’t cry. If she starts, she won’t stop. “I’m trying to track him down.”

“Oh, Robin! What do you think—” but the concern on Ilsa’s voice was too much that she had to hang up on her mid-sentence. _Focus, Robin._

Sam walked her through Olivia in the club, and then trying to look for Sapphire at The Viaduct Tavern.

“Sapphire?”

“Yeah. Bartender told us her name. Says she works at Oriole Bar most days.”

Oriole Bar. Cormoran was following her ideas. They’ve ruled the other women Matthew has slept with out. There was talking to Monica Andrada—but she’s in custody, and wouldn’t have been able to abduct Cormoran too. Checking out the Malmaison, but they haven’t explored that at all. Cormoran said something about trying to get a guest list. Would he have had contacts for something like that?

 _No, Robin. It won’t be that. Not yet_. What is the most actionable. What would he know to do? Talk to the woman named Sapphire.

Sam let her borrow his car, and she noted down helpful phone numbers Sam had. She drove to Oriole Bar, which wasn’t far from The Malmaison, The Viaduct Tavern, even St. Barts.

The bar was closed, it was only 3PM.

Robin pulled up a photo of Cormoran she Googled and showed it around, asking if they’ve seen him.

“We change shifts at 6pm, the nighttime guys would know if your guy was here last night.” said one janitor. But that would be too late. She needed to find him, _now_.

 _Think, Robin, think._ she begged her panicked brain. What would be the next step? Review CCTV tapes? It would take too long to ask, and too long to check. Nobody who was there last night was here, but they would know Sapphire.

“Excuse me,” Robin asked a bus boy for what seemed like the umpteenth time. “But would you know where I could find Sapphire?” she asked, voice as friendly and as calm and as even as she could muster. She must charm, even in the face of debilitating panic, to get the information she needed.

_Please, please, let something go right._

The busboy shrugged. “She won’t be in until 7PM, and that’s if she’s on time. She’s not usually on time.”

Robin had to ask. “Would you know where she lived? Her number?”

The busboy only sniggered.

“Why are you looking for Sapphire?”

Robin turned around, and a man built like a bouncer was sitting on one of the booths.

“I—I’m a friend.” said Robin.

“You were looking for some other bloke awhile ago!” said the busboy.

The bouncer smirked and shook his head. “She does pilates at a studio down the street, the bitch. You can catch her if you hurry. She’s ruined enough marriages.”

“Thank you!” said Robin, incredibly grateful as she bolted for the pilates studio down the street.

Sapphire was indeed in class and Robin felt as though she could weep upon sight of her. _Oh god, Cormoran, where are you?_

“Sapphire.” Robin called as the tall model-esque woman stepped out of the studio. Sapphire took one look at Robin and kept walking. “Sapphire, _please_.” She didn’t mean to sound so desperate.

“Oh sweetie, if you have a problem take it up with your man.”

“No—!” said Robin, stopping Sapphire in her tracks. “Did you talk to this man last night? Have you seen him?” Robin asked, showing Cormoran’s photo.

A look of recognition on her face. “I didn’t touch him, sweetie. You got the wrong girl.”

“No, I’m not—I’m just looking for him. Can you tell me what you two talked about?”

“I didn’t talk to him.” said Sapphire.

“I promise, I’m not trouble.” said Robin.

Sapphire looked at her from head to foot. They were both tall women, but Sapphire was taller. “I didn’t talk to him. I just noticed him coz he’s _big_. You want to talk to Mimi.”

“Who’s Mimi?”

A smirk crawled on Sapphire’s face. “The lady your boyfriend went home with last night, sweetie.”


	39. "Can you walk?"

 

 

 

Cormoran was a large man. It would be very difficult to abduct him.

Difficult, but not impossible.

He felt the strong desire to throw up. He twisted to get up from where the fuck he was and felt his limbs unmoving, cuffed to a large bed.

But he had to, he had to— and so he did, right over his cuffed left shoulder, the brunt of his sick splashing in the gap between the wall and the bed.

The smell was putrid. He felt hung over, but sick too. Like he had food poisoning. He must have been poisoned.

He looked around, eyes taking awhile to focus. A neat nondescript bedroom with light blue walls and a modest though impersonal design. It could be a spare bedroom, a guest house, a bunker. But there was a window. It wasn’t a bunker. He could just see from the light curtain that it was daylight out.

What time was it? Where was he?

He yelled. His voice was hoarse, but audible. “Help!” he yelled amid the honking and ambient noise of the street down below.

He wasn’t anywhere remote. He would still be in the city.

He yelled again, and felt sick bubbling up his throat again. _Fuck_. What’s happened to him? Where was he? What time or day was it? How long has he been stuck there.

He looked down his body. He was fully clothed, shirt tucked in his trousers, belt still in tact. Other than being drenched in sweat and clearly poisoned somehow. Maybe drugged, he looked unharmed. Even his prosthesis was still attached to his leg, chained to the bed with metal cuffs as was his left ankle.

He pulled at his arm. If they were toy handcuffs, the sort you can buy at any sex shop, it wouldn’t be hard to break at all.

But it dug into his wrists like real, professional handcuffs would. He tried the other arm. Same thing.

 _Fuck_.

He knew how to get himself out of that sort of predicament. He’d had to do it once before. He looked around, tried to concentrate for a different solution. Should he yell again? So he did.

A whimper. It was faint. Some sort of sobbing. Female.

Panic rose within him. It could be anybody. It could be Robin. Where was he? What time was it? He started breathing hard, bracing himself for what he was about to do. He twisted his body painfully to bite at a pillow. The sound would have been helpful to alert people down the street, but he couldn’t risk severing his tongue.

He yelled in absolute incredible pain as he pulled his left wrist free from the cuffs. He breathed through the agony. _This isn’t new. You trained for this. This has happened before._ With his injured left hand he clawed at the bedsheet. Looking for something sharp. A pin. A wire. _Anything_.

He groped at the side table, painfully stretching his body to reach. Nothing.

The lamp.

With his injured hand he pulled at the lamp, twisting the bulb and shattering it on the table. The wires inside would be too soft, but the mattress’s springs just might work. He took the broken bulb and ran it hard through the mattress, slicing it open.

His left hand was throbbing, he was almost past the point of pain. But he had to fight. Had to. _You’ve been through worse. You’ve lived through worse._

He pulled at a thin spring, breathing hard, breathing quickly, begging the oxygen to help him fight and stay conscious. He poked at the cuff’s locks. _Let it work_. It has to work. It _will_ work. He wouldn’t be able to do much with two broken thumbs and blind with pain.

A click. _Holy fuck. Holy fuck._ He pulled his right hand free, slipping his prosthesis off the cuffs too large for its ankles and clawed at the last one binding him to the bed. The spring wire worked with that too.

His movements made him dizzy. Nauseous. What had happened to him? What had he been given? He remembered ordering a drink, watching the woman—Sapphire—and then this.

He swallowed the sick threatening to come out of him again as he pulled his heavy and ill body off the bed. Bad idea. He wished he let it out. He felt like collapsing. Pained, ill, injured.

A faint whimper. Faint sobs.

He staggered out the door. Not even bothering to look at the photos on the wall, to understand where he was. He only followed the sound.

A locked door, but the whimpering was coming from inside. He slammed his shoulder against it once. Twice. He felt it give, but not break. One more time with all his might. He catches himself by grasping the doorframe with his left hand, and he yelled at the sudden swell of pain so white hot he thought he would pass out.

The smell was incredible.

He wasn’t able to fight against it, vomiting on the floor by his feet. He staggered forward, eyes watering from the stench of it.

It was Monica Andrada, chained as he had been, parts of her face and neck blistered as though splashed with acid herself. Nothing like Sarah Shadlock, but her open wounds were untreated and he knew she could feel the constant pain of them.

Her body laid on the mattress, as though she’d been left to rot alive. Her clothes stained and soiled from not being permitted to move even to go to the bathroom. He’s seen this before in the life that he had left, and thought would never have to encounter again.

She was whimpering, sobbing, past the point of being able to speak.

He used the wire to free her, slowly, laboriously, fighting through his own pain, fighting through the smell and his heavy and weak body growing weaker and weaker. He mustn’t faint. He mustn’t faint. He must get out and find out where he was, who was doing this, before Robin could figure it out and walk into this den of nightmares.

 _Robin_.

The thought of beating her to this, of saving himself to keep her away from harm—for he knew that she is now looking for him—seemed to give him strength. Energy. He was pulling Monica Andrada to sit up. “Can you walk?” he croaked, but he knew it was futile. He’d have to carry her. Drag her out of here.

But where was here?

He tried to get his brain focus. To remember. Last night. What happened? A flash of memory, of walking out of that bar and into his car parked outside. He had the vague impression that he was being carted out, two people helping him stand upright and walk upright. He willed his mind to turn left, turn right, just to see a face.

Nothing.

“I’ll go get help.” he told her. And what little strength she had clung to his arm as he pulled away. There was nothing he could do. Not in this state. He needed to find a phone. A marker of where they were. Where the fuck on the planet were they? He knew whoever was behind this wasn’t in the house. No one was minding them, perhaps the fucker knew his victims had been left in a state so weak, they couldn’t possibly help themselves.

He dragged himself to the window and pushed it open, the smell outside was so overpoweringly clean and cold he wanted to drown in it. He looked down. There were people walking down the sidewalk. He saw his car. He could yell.

A sudden painful blow to his head, and then all went dark.

 

* * *

 

“Who’s Mimi?” Robin asked Sapphire again, who only smirked.

“Sweetie, if he didn’t come home, he didn’t want to.”

 _How?_ How could Robin make this woman understand that this was not some stupid cheater chase-down? That it was a matter of life or death, that she was running out of time?

“What does Mimi look like?”

“I’m not telling you!” said Sapphire, incredulous that Robin even asked.

Desperate, out of time, she knelt in front of Sapphire right there on the wet side walk where people stared at the scene she was making.

“The fuck!” said the woman, pulling her by the elbows to stand upright again. “The fuck are you doing!”

“Please, _please_ Sapphire. What does she look like? Mimi. Just tell me, _please_.”

It was her only move. The only thing she could think of to do, a nuclear option but she knew it would be effective. Shame was a powerful motivator.

“Fuck! Okay! Just stand up, Jesus!” said the woman, dragging Robin by the elbow so they weren’t so much in the middle of the sidewalk. “Thin, short dark hair, not too tall, white. I don’t know what else I could say…”

“Any obvious physical attributes to her. Piercings, tattoos, moles? Anything?” and then “Was she limping?”

Sapphire looked surprised at the question. “Yeah. She came into class to pick up something she left and said she couldn’t join because she twisted her ankle.”

“You know her from this class? This pilates class?”

“Yeah.”

Robin took out Martin’s phone and searched Facebook for a photo of Matthew. “This man gave you his number Friday the 5th. At the Viaduct Tavern.”

Sapphire looked stunned. “Who _are_ you?” she said, poised to walk away from Robin but she grabbed her arm. “Let go of me!” she shrieked.

“Sapphire. _Please_.” Robin begged. “ _Please_. Someone—someone’s been abducting people and I think it’s your mate Mimi. I need to know who she is, where she lives.”

Sapphire twisted her arm away from Robin, glaring at her as though she didn’t believe Robin. “Mimi? Who’s about this tall? Yeah right.” said Sapphire, holding her hand to about Robin’s height. Robin _knew_ she was on the right track, that this Mimi is who is behind everything.

“Can you tell me anything about last night? _Anything_?”

“Oh sweetie, if he’s cheating—”

“It’s not about cheating!” Robin said desperately. She took a deep breath trying to control her fear and frustration. She felt like throwing up. She fumbled to open her purse, handing her all the money that she had. She wasn’t even sure how much cash that was, but she didn’t care.

Sapphire looked at her with pity, but rolled the notes Robin gave her and shoved it in her sports bra. Robin didn’t care. She could pity Robin all she wanted, so long as she tells her everything.

Sapphire sighed. “I didn’t see much. Seriously. I was doing a set. I saw that he was watching me and then Mimi caught his attention. They were chatting. She was flirty, you know. Touching his arm and shit. He seemed into it.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then nothing. Your man was shit-faced and her and Big Lou helped him to a car.”

“Big Lou?”

“The bouncer at Oriole.”

Was it the man who pointed Robin to Sapphire’s direction?

“Did Mimi get in the car with Cormoran? With the man?”

There it was again. Pity. “Oh sweetie, just dump his ass. You look young, how young are you?”

Robin waved the remark away, showing her Matthew’s photo again. “What about this guy? He gave you his number.”

“So?”

“What did you do with it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The number this guy gave you, what did you do with it?”

“I never called—”

“I know, but what did you do with it?”

This seemed an odd question for Sapphire.

“Did you give it to Mimi?”

Her face changed. Robin knew she was right.

“Sapphire,” said Robin, her heart pounding so fast she could hear her ears throbbing. “What was Mimi wearing that night at The Viaduct Tavern? Friday night? The 5th? Was it red? A red dress?”

“Yeah but—”

But Robin turned, leaving Sapphire bewildered as she ran back to Sam’s car and drove to Matthew.


	40. "Who's Mimi?"

 

 

 

Cormoran was on his stomach on the floor.

Judging from the stench, he was still in the room where Monica Andrada was kept. The room was dark, it must be night now.

He lifted himself, and found that he was once again cuffed on the foot of the bed this time. The attacker didn’t know he had already broken his left thumb, and he slipped off pretty easily.

His head was throbbing among other things. Was he concussed? Who was this person who had taken him, but doesn’t seem to know how to secure his own captives?

He sat up, back to the bed, Mo’s whimpers going frantic as he moved.

He pulled himself up, holding onto the bed to keep from overbalancing. She was cuffed again, all four limbs as he had seen her. He contemplated on freeing her again, but there wasn’t anymore time to lose.

Their captor would stay put now, knowing that he had been so close to freedom. He pressed his finger to his lips to signal for Monica to shush, which only made her sob more.

He wrenched himself away from the poor young woman, wrenched himself from the instinct to get her to safety. They had tried that and failed. If he had a prayer to overpower whoever it was, he couldn’t risk another blow to the head.

He pressed his back against the wall next to the doorway. Intending to lure whoever it was that has them and overpowering him with a lamp he grabbed. If he doesn’t go down with a blow to the head, Cormoran will fucking strangle him with the electricity cord.

He was about to make noise. Scream, alert the fucker.

A shriek. Then a gunshot.

This time, Cormoran didn’t have to guess or assume. He _knew._

Robin.

 

* * *

 

Whoever Mimi was, Matthew slept with her. Robin knew it for a fact. That was the common thread in all of this. Mimi was eliminating people Matthew had been with one by one. Sarah, Mo, her.

Buy why take Cormoran? To lure Robin to her? Because he was close to finding out who she was?

 _Oh god_.

If she wanted to remove all possibility of being found out, she wouldn’t have reason to keep Cormoran…

She braked suddenly, the seatbelt digging into her chest. _Not now, not now_. She begged her panicked brain. The thought. The very thought that she was already too late, that Cormoran’s—

It was no use. She unbuckled herself, giving herself room to breathe. She clawed for the door to stagger out, hearing the honk of angry cars she had blocked. She just managed to sit on the curb as her panic engulfed her, blocking everything.

She wanted to pass out. Wanted to succumb to the inviting warmth of being numb. But she couldn’t. She was so close. So close.

“Are you okay?” asked a voice she did not know, and she opened her eyes and a small group of strangers had clumped around her. There were still distant honks. She had caused traffic. “Do you want to be taken to the hospital? It’s right up—”

“I’m fine.” she panted, allowing the kind strangers to pull her upright. She walked back to the car, wobbly, hands shaking so bad she couldn’t latch the seatbelt on the first try. She fought through it. Fought through the fear and the panic and the pain and the dread and the worry and drove the last few blocks to University College Hospital.

Vanessa was there when she arrived.

“Robin!” exclaimed her friend, and Robin felt like fainting as Vanessa reached out for her, but she held it together. “What’s happening?”

“Matt—”she started, pulling away from her friend to stare at her husband that she once loved, who looked livid and pained with his eye purpling as he looked at her with utter disgust.

“Matt, _please_.” she begged, slumping on the chair by his bedside. Reaching out for his arm that he wrenched away. “She has him, Matt. _Please_. _Please_ who is she?”

She was crying now. Real tears. Weeping as her husband twisted to keep from looking at her grief-stricken, sorrowful face. “She as both of them, Matt. If you love Mo—” If he felt even an inch for Mo how much she loved Cormoran, he would help her.

“But there isn’t anybody else.” he insisted, voice just as confused as she felt. “I swear Robin.”

“Who’s Mimi?”

“I don’t know a Mimi.”

He turned to him now, and Robin saw that he is just as scared, just as confused, just as desperate as she felt. “I swear, I don’t know a Mimi. Robin—”

He reached to cup her face and she let him, and she felt the cold metal of his bulky watch on her cheek—

“How’d you get the Rolex?” she asked, suddenly as though she was in a long dark tunnel barreling towards the light. “And the car? And the money for the Knightsbridge apartment?”

“What’s that got to—”

“Matt. _Please_.”

“I’d been promoted! It’s--it’s from a promotion. All from a promotion.”

It doesn’t make sense. “You were just promoted a few months ago.”

“Yeah, Jemima gave me another one because I’d been working nonstop after you stepped out—”

Jemima. Jemima who had been around often, checking up on Matthew, watching after him as though—

“You and Jemima, you’ve never—”

“What?” his defensiveness returning. “No!”

“Matthew!”

“No! Fuck, Robin. I know, I know you can’t trust me but I _swear_ I’m not lying. Not anymore. I’ve never been with Jemima. _Ever_.”

“Has she _ever_ shown any interest—?”

Matthew looked bewildered and unsure. “Maybe, but I told her I was trying to get you back and she knew about Sarah—”

“She _knew_ about Sarah?”

He looked ashamed. “Saw us out once. Asked me about it. But that was it.”

“And Mo? Does she know about Mo, Matt?”

“Yeah. I brought her to an office party.”

Jemima was fiddling with her ankle when she ran into the woman yesterday. She didn’t get a good look, but it might not be because Robin had stepped on her at all. She knew about Sarah, knew about Mo. ‘ _I told her I was trying to get you back.’_

She closed her eyes, picturing Jemima. They were around the same height. She was thin. Thinner than Robin, with a physique that would be able to wear dresses built for small-breasted women. It was a hunch, but there was nothing else. No one else.

There wouldn’t be any more time for her to review CCTV videos.

“Where does she live?”

“ _Jemima!_ ” Matthew said, as though the very idea was laughable.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Yesterday, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Matthew. _Please_.”

He gave Robin her address. She gasped. It wasn’t too far from her apartment in Earl’s Court. Just a few blocks away. That’s how she’d know where the CCTVs wouldn’t be. She could’ve just dragged herself home.

It wasn’t enough, Robin knew. But what choice did she have?

“Vanessa,” she turned to her friend who was still there. Robin assumed Matthew had called her to report about Cormoran punching him. “Will you help me?”

Her friend nodded immediately.

Night had fallen when they left Matthew. She called Sam about leaving his car at University College Hospital and was mildly relieved that Sam said not to worry and that he’ll get it himself, and offered his assistance which Robin declined.

“Are you going to get into trouble?” Robin asked, because she couldn’t help it.

“Doesn’t matter.” said Vanessa, face serious. “That doesn’t matter right now.”

Robin looked ahead into the street as Vanessa drove quickly, trying to rally her forces and not cry. _I’m coming, Cormoran_.

 

* * *

 

Cormoran could hear tussling downstairs. He staggered bodily through the hall, against the stair railing where he could see into the living room.

Robin had the woman—Jemima—around the waist, pulling her away from Vanessa as they both tried to fight each other for a gun. “Oy!” Cormoran yelled, and both Robin and Jemima looked up, Vanessa taking the chance to pull the gun off of Jemima’s hands. It slipped with the force of her pull and dropped on the floor, where it fired off another bullet.

All of them ducked on instinct and Cormoran saw the three women scramble to find it. Jemima grabbed Robin’s foot and pulled, with Robin kicking at her face. Cormoran moved, adrenaline aiding as he made for the stairs.

But Jemima was quick. She grabbed the gun again and pointed at the three points of Robin, Vanessa, and Cormoran, all three of them freezing.

“Don’t move. Don’t fucking move.” she threatened. Cormoran’s fear bubbling every time the weapon pointed at Robin. “I’m going to shoot all of you if you move, I swear to God!”

“We’re not moving," said Vanessa, hands extending to show that she wasn’t planning on doing anything to her. Cormoran did the same. Robin kept her hand to her sides, not knowing it was something she should do.

Jemima was thin and limping, but she was strong and fit and psychotic enough to pull off all this. _At me, point it at me._ He willed as she kept swivelling between her three targets. If he lost Robin now, he might as well die himself.

“I just wanted him to love me,” said Jemima, gun straight at Robin. He dared move a step down. Jemima saw and pointed it at him. “One more move big guy, and I shoot you first.” she said. “Matt would like that, I think.” she said, crazed look on her face. “He fucking hates you.”

Cormoran doesn’t care. She could riddle him with bullets as long as Robin gets to walk away.

“That’s right.” Cormoran agreed.

“Corm!” said Robin. Startled, Jemima swivelled to Robin again.

“You didn’t fucking deserve him!” she yelled. “You never deserved him!”

The play, as Cormoran assumed Vanessa was also thinking, would be to storm Jemima at two points while one was distracting her. He could see Vanessa trying to catch his attention, but he wouldn’t budge. He can’t risk it. There’s a chance Jemima would fire and Robin wasn’t trained to evade it, wouldn’t know how, would take the shot to the heart and all would be lost.

 _Don’t move. For fuck’s sake, don’t move._ He willed as though Vanessa had a hope of hearing him. She was poising for a pounce. One leap and she could pull Jemima down, but she will definitely fire, and he can’t risk that.

“Matt’s dumped Robin now, Jemima.” said Cormoran, voice calm. Jemima turned to him again, as he intended. Gun straight to his face. “Doesn’t want her anymore.”

Jemima flexed her hands, finger on the trigger but trembling. Whether she was a good shot or not, whether she’s ever held a weapon or not was irrelevant. If she fires, he’s a big enough target but it doesn’t matter. If she’s pointing at him, she isn’t pointing at Robin. “Signed the divorce papers.”

“Yeah?” Jemima asked, hope and disbelief mingling in her manner.

“Yep. Found out we’re together. Wants nothing to do with her now.”

Cormoran caught Robin’s eye who looked petrified and wanted to make a move, and he chanced a small shake of the head. Jemima swivelled again, gun back to Robin.

“If you kill her, he won’t move on.” said Cormoran. “If Robin dies, Matthew will carry it for the rest of his life.”

“So what? I’ll make it better. I’ll make him forget.” she cocked the gun, pointing straight at Robin’s face.

“He wants nothing to do with Robin now that she’s with me,” said Cormoran, swallowing whatever urge he had to make sudden movements, whatever genuine fear he has over the love of his life facing certain death. “Throwing her lot with a rackety private detective? Accepting minimum wage? Poor match for a rising star accountant.”

Jemima pointed the gun at him again. “DON’T TRICK ME!” she yelled.

“I’m not tricking you.” said Cormoran. “That’s why I punched him. Because he told me. That’s why you wanted to take me out too, isn’t it? Because I hurt him.”

“He was so upset when I went back to him,” said Jemima, face contorting with sorrow at the memory. “His beautiful face.”

“Told me I could have her. That he wanted nothing to do with her. That he was going to find someone he can proudly show off to the world as equal to him.” said Cormoran, chancing a step down the stairs. Robin gasped, but he knew what he was doing. “Someone sophisticated, he told me. A woman of substance with beauty and ambition and experience.”

“He said that?”

“That’s why I punched him.”

“Corm—!” Robin protested.

“Shut up!” he bellowed at her. _Please, Robin. We’re so close to this being over_.

Jemima hated being reminded that Cormoran hurt Matthew’s perfect face, but that was what he was going for. Vanessa was moving ever so slowly away from Jemima’s line of sight. When she pounces, he will be shot but he can take it. The gun will go up. He might have to take it on the shoulder, but that’ll be fine.

“You don’t want to do this, Jemima.” said Robin, and her attention was to Robin again. _Fuck_. “If—if you kill anybody, you won’t be able to run off with Matt.”

It was a misstep. Cormoran knew it, Vanessa knew it. “They think Tom Turvey hurt Sarah.” Vanessa chimed in. “They’re not even looking at you at all.”

Didn’t work. Gun still to Robin.

“I’m the lead on Robin’s intruder. I can make it go away.” That caught her attention, swivelling to Vanessa instead. “Mo Andrada’s alright too, isn’t she? She’s still alive? I can make her case go away, too.”

Cormoran could see Jemima’s grip slackening, Robin had gripped a vase.

“As long as no one else gets hurt, you and Matthew can run off together.” Vanessa promised.

“NOW!” Cormoran yelled, and he threw the lamp in his hand the same time Robin threw the vase right at Jemima’s head. A gun fire, and both Jemima and Vanessa went down and Cormoran could see Vanessa shot at the leg, trying to pin Jemima’s legs as she crawled for the gun that had skidded from her grasp.

Cormoran barrelled down the stairs, but froze as Robin lunged for the gun herself. Jemima kicked and freed herself from Vanessa’s grasp, tackling Robin before she could turn and point the gun at Jemima. There was a tussle for the weapon, Jemima’s fingers around Robin’s throat as she wrenched the firearm from her grasp.

“No!” Cormoran yelled and another gunshot. He stared at Robin’s white and petrified face, blue-grey eyes wide and so so beautiful--

And then, no more.


	41. "How do I stop it?"

 

 

 

Robin watched as the bullet lodged itself into Cormoran’s chest. Watched as blood spurt and he toppled, falling on a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

She could feel Jemima’s bony fingers tight around her neck, could feel the air leaving her body, the pain of her throat closing in. She was fighting, she knew, clawing for her to let go. But it was biology. It was only her body reacting the way it was built to react.

Her soul had already left.

It had floated away, as though blasted out by the bullet that sent the man she loved toppling lifeless down the stairs.

It would be over soon, she knew. She hoped Jemima would succeed. Hope her fingers were strong enough and tight enough to actually kill her. Her body was still fighting, but she observed it like a detached spectator would watch animals killing themselves in the wild.

She had already died.

She could pretend that Jemima had succeeded. She’s done it before. Her body pretended to be dead so it could keep breathing. But if she pretended, Jemima would stop. She wasn’t so very interested in living anymore. Maybe she was, deep down. She was still fighting, wasn’t she? It still hurt, and she was still petrified, but however this turned out—whether her body makes it or not—was irrelevant.

She was already dead.

She wondered where Cormoran would be now. It doesn’t matter, she’ll come find him. It might take an eternity, but then they’ll spend the rest of it together.

Her eyes were getting heavy and her lungs were getting tired of fighting. Dying wasn’t so bad. It hurt like hell, sure, but nothing like fighting.

Suddenly, her throat opened up and she was gasping for air. She didn’t want to, but her body was insistent on breathing. Jemima had fallen over her, hands slack by the side of her neck. She rolled off, or was pushed off.

“Robin.”

She saw his face hover over her for a spit second before collapsing with a thud and a faint splash next to her.

With all the strength she had left in her, she pushed herself up over him just to look at his face.

He was pale, and the pool of blood that was like a puddle against his back would be his.

“Cormoran!” she cried, hand on his wound just over his heart as if to try and keep the blood from spilling out. “How do I stop it? How do I stop it?” she croaked, frantic, looking all over him as though she’ll find an answer written somewhere on his person.

He was white. “No, no, no.” she heard herself sob, and caressed the bloody hand that was cupping her face. “No, please. No.”

“Robin,” he said.

“Don’t.” she shook her head, pressing her cheek to his, just to feel him reassuringly warm against her.

But he wasn’t warm.

He had tears flowing down the edge of his eyes. The first time she’s ever seen him cry. She cradled his face in her hands, wiping them away, succeeding only in smudging blood on his beautiful face.

It was like she was bleeding, too.

“Don’t. Don’t.” she begged, sobbing. She could hear sirens. “They’re coming. Baby, they’re coming.”

She felt his weak hands that were gripping her slacken, saw his eyes close and his mouth gape in her hands. “No. Baby, _please_.” she begged. Kissing his lips, willing for him to kiss her back. “Come back,” she sobbed. “Come back.” she cried against his mouth.

And as she felt his lips grow colder she thought, _take me with you_.

 

 

 

 

 

She didn’t want to leave him, but she was dead herself. She watched as they tried to revive him, as the paramedic shook his head in frustration as he tried and kept trying to punch the life back into Cormoran’s body.

She didn’t want to turn away, didn’t want to hope, didn’t want to accept.

She could only hear the distant speaking of the people trying to keep her body alive, saying things like her eyes were responsive, that her ribs were possibly shattered, her voice box torn. They tried to talk to her, get her to answer questions, but they might as well be talking to an empty house. She was no longer there. There’s nobody home. Home is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

She didn’t know which hospital she was at, but it was Nick who hovered over her as she was being wheeled into A&E.

“You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay.” said Nick his eyes bloodshot and tearful.

“Corm,” she tried to croak, but no sound came. Her body felt like crying, so she did. Jemima had squeezed her very soul away, but she hated that she didn’t succeed so well with her body. She could still feel the pain, the shock and the loss and the of feeling Cormoran growing cold in her arms.

Her fingers tried to claw at Nick, but they were very weak. He held her hand as the doctors did what they needed to do to her compliant body.

She wished Nick would stop crying for the shell that remained of her. She didn’t want to feel pressured to come back to it, to return to where Cormoran would no longer be.

Her body felt tired, and her eyes felt heavy, and much as she fought it, the shell won in the end.

She drifted off to sleep.


	42. "Was he your love, Miss Robin?"

 

 

 

Robin felt heavy. Has Cormoran fallen asleep on top of her again? She lifted her heavy arms to wrap them around him.

There was nothing.

She opened her eyes. The room was bright and clean but not hers nor Cormoran’s. Her brother Jonathan was there, or he was, because he scarpered out and she was alone. What happened? Where’s Cormoran?

A kind stranger came in. White coat. Doctor. Asked her questions and she answers them. It hurt to talk, and her voice sounded hoarse and airy. Why is she in a hospital? Is Cormoran in the loo? Maybe at the cafeteria. She wished he’d come back already, she missed him. Like they haven’t been together in…

She suddenly gasped, as though she had drowned and then was spurting out the water that killed her. “Where is he? Where is he?” she asked, panicked, pleading at the doctor to understand even with her broken voice.

“Calm down, Miss Ellacott.” Implored the doctor, trying to stop her from getting off the bed. She clawed at the strings attached to her like she was a puppet. It happened before, medicines and whatever machines hooked up to her as though she was on life support. She could tell them she was fine. In tact. Riddled with flesh wounds but otherwise alright.

It’s Cormoran. Cormoran…

A prick on her shoulder and then darkness.

 

 

 

 

 

Robin woke up crying, in pain. If she was on morphine, it had ran out. Her ribs hurt as she sobbed and sobbed silently into the darkness. She can’t even muster noise as she cried. She remembered the feel of his hand on her cheek, his eyes he’d been struggling to keep open. His lips as he tried to speak, the strong metal smell of blood gushing from out of him.

Where was he? Why hasn’t nobody said anything? _Why am I alone?_

Her body heavy and in pain, she got up and off her gurney, quietly wheeling the IV stand and using it as a stick. It hurt to move. Her torso was bandaged, but that’s irrelevant right now. She needed to find him. To see for herself what’s become of Cormoran.

The halls were bright but empty, as though everyone but her was asleep. She could feel the hospital’s air conditioning like a draft on her open back. She didn’t even know if she was wearing pants, but she didn’t care.

She found the elevator asking her for up or down. Up would be intensive care, down would be the morgue.

She chose hope.

“Oh!” she heard it, the tiny squeak of her voice that was so painful to produce but it was there. And _he_ was there. Bandaged and tubed with the loud beep of a heart monitor breaking through the night’s silence.

She clawed at the glass sliding door to get to him, to feel his warm skin, his hot breath, his heartbeat for herself.

He was alive, she could tell. Whatever the tubes and the monitors and his unconscious body told her, he was alive.

She sobbed, noisily this time. The whole of her ached with every cry she choked out. He’s alive.

 

 

 

 

 

Robin was glad that she had the foresight to wear a turtleneck as she sat on the plush chair next to Cormoran’s bed, because her mother had arrived and looked positively distressed even at the little gashes and bruises on her daughter’s face.

If Linda saw the rest of her, she might drop dead.

Quite content with fussing over her, she turned to Cormoran who still haven’t come to, two days after surgery. “Poor dear.” said her mother, pressing a kind and warm palm to Cormoran’s face.

Robin watched as Linda stared at him a moment, with comforting and caring eyes she reserves for her children. She wonders if Linda sees him as her child too. She ought to, because if Cormoran dies she would likely jump in that grave with his coffin.

“Would you like to go out for a walk? It’s nice out.” her mother suggested.

“No thanks, mum.” said Robin, her voice still just a whisper. “I’m fine right here.”

No one has been able to tear her away from that chair for very long. She cooperated with every test they asked so long as they did them there, where Robin could watch the rise and fall of Cormoran’s chest as he breathed.

She was grateful that her mother didn’t try too hard to convince her.

She was only vaguely aware that her mother had left because she felt her kiss on her temple and saw her lean to kiss Cormoran, too. Robin liked that. She’d love Cormoran, really. He was neat and polite and hilarious and knew how to ingratiate himself with just about anybody. She’ll take him to Masham after this. Spend Christmas with her family. Tour him around.

 

 

 

 

 

The nurse who gave Cormoran sponge baths was a sturdy woman. She was chatty and cheerful who told Robin her real name was ‘Mahal’, but that no one in this part of the world pronounced it very well, and so everyone just called her ‘Love’.

“It’s the meaning, Miss Robin.” she explained with a strong accent, teaching Robin how to fold the washcloth on her hands a certain way. “‘Mahal’ means ‘love’. Was he your love, Miss Robin?” Love smiled, teasing a little but she didn’t mind.

“Yeah.” said Robin, gently wiping the washcloth on Cormoran’s unmoving face. “He’s my love.”

“ _Ay!_ What a beautiful couple!” Love tittered.

“May I do that?” she asked, as Love moved to wash Cormoran’s right leg. Love gave her a kind smile and moved, giving her space as she gently washed the skin of his stump.

“He’s so lucky! You’re so pretty and you love him so much.” said Love, as she packed all her things. Robin was sat by his bed again, gently caressing his hair. “Don’t worry Miss Robin. He’ll wake up soon. He’s strong, big guy. Like an action star.”

Robin smiled, for what felt like the first time in days. “He’ll like that you called him that.”

 

 

 

 

 

The orderly had to lift her bodily out of the room when Cormoran’s heart stopped.

She cried and yelled as she watched them resuscitate him with those metal paddles before his heart monitor beeped again and they wheeled him back up to surgery.

She wanted to watch, but they had threatened to sedate her if she didn’t allow them to check if she had re-broken her ribs with all her thrashing. She hadn’t, and she twisted away from her doctors to go to the gallery.

“It was lucky, really.” said his doctor as Robin squeezed Cormoran’s warm hand, willing for him to squeeze back.

Something about the bullet they couldn’t remove moving and finally being able to take it out.

Robin supposed there were many different definitions of ‘lucky’, but she knew this was not one of them.

 

 

 

 

 

She was finally getting discharged, her doctor likely to walk in Cormoran’s room at any moment with the papers. She was keen for them, because then they won’t be entitled to poke and prod at her and she can watch over Cormoran in peace.

People have been in and out. A round robin of concerned people asking after him, asking after her. Leaving fruit baskets and balloons and get well soon cards she knew Cormoran would deplore. She was only vaguely aware of them all, background noises around the focal point of her attention.

She wondered if he could get him to wake up just by sheer force of will. If only she was magic.

She wished he’d wake up already so they could get out of there. Begin their life together.

She felt a small hand squeeze hers, and finally she was distracted.

“Are you Uncle Cormoran’s girlfriend?” asked Jack.

“Yeah.”

Jack smiled at her. “You’re Robin?”

“Yeah.”

“Uncle Corm said you were there when I was the one in hospital.”

“That’s right.”

“What did you do?”

“Just sat, looked at you a lot. Squeezed hands.”

“Okay. I can do that for you, too.”

Robin had been very good at not crying when there were people around. But she couldn’t help it now, and the nine year old, so brave and so kind pat her on the back.

 

 

 

 

 

She had squeezed herself on his left side, where none of his bandages nor his IV were hooked up. She liked laying with him like this, able to pretend for a few minutes that they were just in bed.

He’d wake up soon, she assured herself. He’d wake up and hold her soon.


	43. "Where are you going?"

 

 

 

She didn’t know how long she fell asleep, but it was dusk. Cormoran’s doctor’s would make the rounds soon and if they found her on his bed again, they’d tell her off and make her wait outside while they do their tests.

She moved to get off him, but she felt a squeeze on her side as she shifted.

“Where are you going?”

Robin wasn’t sure if her heart was beating too fast or stopped altogether. She didn’t dare look up at him, fearing she was imagining it—she dreamed so often of this scenario—or maybe that she was laid on an entirely different bed.

She felt his lips on the top of her head.

Then she sobbed.

“I’m okay, baby.” She heard Cormoran whisper. “I’m okay.”

 

* * *

 

“I’ve gotten very good at this, I’ll have you know.” said Robin, folding a wash cloth like a mitten in her hands and gently dabbing it all over his face and shoulders.

“Really?” said Cormoran, caressing the back of her hand, sighing at how gentle she was, the proximity of her.

“I’d make a good nurse, I think.” said Robin, bringing her face to kiss him.

“Mm,” Cormoran agreed, kissing back. “Nurse Robin has a ring to it.”

Robin’s mouth curled to a smile. “Think that’s sexy, do you?”

“I think you’re sexy.” he said, pulling him to her again, kissing her mouth. “I could get used to you giving me sponge baths.”

She sat on the bed next to him, her wash cloth wetting his gown unpleasantly as she leaned to kiss him better. She pulled away, and he could see that her eyes were wet and her face was red.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, even though he knew.

She shook her head. “Nothing.” she tried to smile. He kissed the bridge of her nose. Her wet cheek. Lifted her chin lightly with his okay hand, planted a soft kiss on her lip. He wiped her tear with his finger. She sniffled. “C’mere.” He pulled her to him, chin on her head as she nuzzled at his neck.

Everything will catch up with them soon enough, but for now he was alive, she was alive, they were in each other’s arms, and that’s everything that matters in the world.

A clearing of the throat.

Both of them looked to see who it was.

 _Jesus effin’ Christ_.

“How are you?” asked Jonny Rokeby, stepping into the room with his arms behind his back, looking around as though appraising the state of his hospital room. He could see the staff look awestruck at him, whispering excitedly among themselves.

Robin made a move to extricate herself from him. He held tighter. She pulled away anyway, standing upright next to his bed.

“Heard all about it in the news,” said Rokeby with an air of powering through something painfully awkward (which was bang on). “Miss Ellacott,” he smiled at Robin, extending his hand. Robin took it and instead of a shake, he kissed the back of it. “Been wanting to meet you for awhile. You’re an impressive young woman.”

He wanted to hurl something hateful at this arsehole who shows himself possibly for a photo-op. What fresh scandal does Jonny Rokeby have to bury this time? A divorce? Yet another love child?

He held up a card, blue with a football on it and in bold letters it said ‘Get Well Soon, My Boy’. It wasn’t in his hands yet but Cormoran was excited to tear it to a million pieces. Rokeby put it by the window, with a row of cards other people have left.

“Just wanted to pop in, see how you were doing.” said Rokeby. “Didn’t mean to disturb.” he smiled, backing away to exit the room.

“Well that was nice of him.” whispered Robin, rubbing Cormoran’s chest. He only smirked.

“Probably needed the photo op. They gave him a hard time when I got my leg blown off and he wasn’t seen showing his face.”

Robin picked up the card, and her eyes grew wide.

“What is it?” Cormoran asked, knowing it must be a cheque. It would be like Jonny Rokeby to write him a check.

Robin handed it to him. Whatever amount Cormoran assumed it would be, it was a hundred times that. As though he was given a 7th of the man’s net worth or something. He ripped it, with effort. His left thumb was still bandaged from having to break it.

He moved to rip the card too, but Robin stopped him, and in deference to her wants he handed her back the card untouched and she displayed it with the rest of the well wishes.

He was pleased that she was pleased, and she snuggled up next to him on his tiny bed again, face angled towards her. “Where were we?” she smiled

They kissed. “Don’t get too comfortable,” Cormoran murmured against her lips. “He couldn’t have come here alone.”

And as if on cue, a giant teddy bear bigger than Cormoran entered the room, and he could just see his brother Al, squished behind it.

Robin laughed, and so he did, too.

 

* * *

 

If Robin didn’t want to leave Cormoran when he was unconscious, she showed even less willingness to leave him now that he’s woken up. She would watch him as he slept, watching the rise and fall of his chest as though her focus was the only thing keeping him breathing.

She was laid against the giant teddy bear that Al had brought. It was comfortable, and it made Cormoran laugh when she first plopped on it. She was looking forward to tomorrow. He was going to be discharged. They both had physio to look forward to, and she’s got therapy back in her life and the road to okay looked daunting, but she’d be very glad to see the back of this hospital forever.

Someone entered the room, quietly, and she saw the protruding belly before the person attached to it, waddling in a beautiful cream maxi-dress that the woman wore well. She didn’t need to see her face—for she headed straight for Cormoran’s sleeping form—but it could only be one person.

Robin watched, unmoving, as Charlotte Campbell Ross’s delicate fingers swiped the little fringe on Cormoran’s hair. _It doesn’t go that way,_ Robin thought possessively. _It goes the other way now._

Her gentle fingers traced his cheek, and Robin watched as she squeezed his hand and did not let go.

She pulled herself up from the silly teddy bear who seemed to have swallowed her with its fluffiness.

That finally caught Charlotte’s attention, turning around startled as Robin ungracefully tried to stand upright. She imagined meeting Charlotte for the first time. Imagined being in Cormoran’s arm, in the Roberto Cavalli he had gifted her, possessively touching and kissing at Cormoran while she stood there in utter jealousy—not as she wrestled with a giant teddy bear and her hair unwashed for a record number of days.

Charlotte was stunning. Fine-boned, taller than her, hair framing her perfect face prettily as though she glided after being dolled up by a stylist. She’d seen her a couple of times, but staring at her now like this, Robin appreciated just how much of a singular beauty she was.

“You’re Robin.” she said, hand still holding Cormoran’s.

“Yeah,” she said, hearing her own accent and suddenly it was ten times more bruske and northern than usual.

Charlotte gave her a small smile. “Thank you for saving him.”

She imagined Charlotte not pregnant, and then bitch-slapping her perfect face. She was tricky, Robin understood that now. One calculated phrase and she managed to make Robin feel as though Cormoran was on loan.

She didn’t want to show herself rattled by her, but she couldn’t bear that she was still holding Cormoran’s hand.

“I’ll take that, thanks.” she said, almost swatting Charlotte’s hand away and replacing it with hers. Cormoran squeezed and she felt calmed.

“I didn’t mean--” Charlotte started, but gave up mid-thought.

“You’re very beautiful.” said Charlotte. “Very young.”

She glared at her. Charlotte only smiled.

“Bye, Bluey.” she said, squeezing his shoulder before walking away. That’s when Robin realised Cormoran was awake.

“Never mind her.” he said, kissing her hand, wiggling a little to give her space. “Come here, sleep next to me.”

And so she did.

 

* * *

 

Shanker and Barclay had picked them up from the hospital, with Shanker spending the ride back to Denmark Street asking both him and Robin why he hadn’t been called to aid in the terrible business at the apartment.

“I woulda cut the bitch.” he muttered, and Cormoran thought, as he felt Robin’s head on his good shoulder, is exactly why Shanker wasn’t called.

It was very important that Jemima Potter didn’t die. Even when he had kicked her head with the last of his strength and lay there on a pool of his own blood, half-dead himself, he hoped that he hadn’t accidentally snapped her neck and killed her. If innocent people were going to walk away from all the catastrophe she caused, she needed to be able to own up to them and answer for them.

He only had a vague idea about what happened after that night at Jemima’s apartment. It was all over the news, on headlines of papers as he walked around the hospital, talked about on waiting room television shows. The Met had given them space, which he appreciated. They would want a debrief, but seeing as they had the bitch in custody, and had been chasing the wrong leads the entire time, and both him and Robin nearly died to do what they refused to do, they likely saw that as long as either of them were in hospital, they ought to not be disturbed.

But that’s over now, and Cormoran imagined they would be inundated by summons as early as tomorrow morning.

There were press in front of the building of course, and Andy was waiting to receive them at the other end of the door. Shanker, who looked terrifying, had escorted Robin through the throngs of reporters who parted like the Red Sea to let them pass. He was not as lucky, inundated with questions and flashes as Sam tried to shove them off.

“Don’t hit them, Sam!” Cormoran barked, because Sam wanted to slap a camera that got in the way of his face. “If you break any of them, we’d have to pay for it!”

They all crammed in the building’s foyer and Robin smiled and asked if anyone wanted to order takeaway.

When he sat back on the office couch, Robin was immediately snuggling beside him. They usually wouldn’t be so affectionate with company and in their office. He liked it though, even though he knew it was likely also borne out of fear. He was afraid, too. He had come so close to losing her.

“D’you want me to fix you a plate?” he asked, softly, close to her so that she was the only one who’d hear. She sighed and shook her head, looking up at him and kissed him lightly on the lips. He wished it was only the two of them that’s there, but liked Sam, Andy, and Shanker’s lively company as well.

“Does your neck hurt?” he asked, for he could see the still purple bruise from down her turtleneck. Her voice is still hoarse, not yet completely back. “Your ribs?”

She shook her head.

“Your shoulder?” she asked him back.

It hurt like a mother fucker. Has been hurting since he woke up a few days ago, but nothing he couldn’t grit his teeth through, so he shook his head.

 

* * *

 

“Are you cold?” Cormoran asked her, because Robin went to bed still in the turtleneck she wore that day. She shook her head and moved to lay down. They didn’t do anything the whole day, but she felt like she had an abnormally long one and was finally laying down to rest.

Cormoran sat up, looking back at her, taking her hand to pull her up and sit next to him. She rested her chin on his good shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, kissing her hand, and a part of her face he could reach.

She held her hand to her neck. She didn’t want to see her injuries any more than she wanted him to see them. They were dark and terrifying and brought her back to that night.

He shifted his body, his bandaged left hand swiping some of the hair off her face. He cupped her face and kissed her. Gentle, sweet. Reassuringly loving and she fought the want to wrap her arms around his neck, knowing it would hurt the left side of his body.

She felt him kiss her jaw, his hand on the hem of her sweater pulling it up slowly, gently. She pulled away a little and pulled it off and he looked at her with those kind eyes, and he traced her bruises with his gentle fingers, and he ran them down her chest, between her breasts to the rib bandage she still had to wear.

He kissed her lips again, and her jaw again, and pressed his gentle lips against her neck and it didn’t hurt. Not even a little.

She felt his large hand on her back, unhooking her bra and she laid back on the mattress as Cormoran pressed gentle kisses on the bruises and cuts on her body as she held his head reassuringly gentle and loving and _here_. He laid back next to her when she knew his shoulder hurt hovering over her like that, and she pulled up the blanket over them as she kicked off the rest of her clothes and his, and draped her naked self against him.

They didn’t make love—they couldn’t, not yet—but they fell asleep clinging onto each other’s bodies, warm and alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you imagine if I killed him? Gotcha nervous, didn't I? LOL.


	44. "Are you two decent?"

 

 

 

Cormoran’s breath hitched as Robin straddled him and sank. He was sat on the edge of his bed, holding Robin securely by his right arm, and she wrapped her left arm around his neck, her right hand gently clutching his side.

They stayed still like that for a moment, naked bodies pressed close, together as much as two people could physically be. There would be time for moving later, but for now there was this.

He pulled the blanket off the bed, and they grunted as Cormoran lifted them a bit to remove the blanket from under him. He wrapped it around them, building themselves a cocoon no one could penetrate.

Her fingers traced the contours of his face, scratched at his stubble, her blue-grey eyes lidded as she stared at his lips. She kissed him, gently, eyes open, and he wanted so bad to propose to her, ask her to run away.

She started rocking gently, slowly, adding mild pleasure to their joining. He would cradle her like this forever. He would want to be _fused_ like this until the end of time if it were possible. How he loved her. How he loved her. How he loved her.

Tears were leaking down her eyes, and he lifted his bandaged hand to wipe them gently away. Her own fingers were doing the same. Was he crying? When he only felt overjoyed?

“Marry me.” he whispered, moved to say it but meaning it with all his heart. He thought it was ridiculous when he thought it, but not so much now out loud, in actuality.

She nodded, the tips of their noses rubbing together, before she pressed her face to him, mouths open as they kissed each other slowly, gently, with passion and longing and love.

It wouldn’t be right away, they knew that. It would be years and years from this moment perhaps, after he gets down on one knee and presents her a ring. But this had been his way of pledging his life to her, and that had been her way of accepting.

He would die for Robin Ellacott, and he had. And he will do it again, if necessary. Over and over, if necessary.

 

* * *

 

This had been how they held each other on those steps an entire lifetime ago. There had been more clothes then, of course, and the lower halves of their bodies were definitely not _fused_ like this, and her hips were not circling quite so obscenely, but this had been how she hugged him, this had also been how she felt even then—a sudden upsurge of love so overwhelming, she was whisked away.

“Come with me,” he whispered in her ear. She held him tighter and felt his arm constrict around her, and he pistoned as she rocked, as she ground, as she gripped as hard as she dared.

She imagined herself in her white wedding gown, Yorkshire roses in her hair, hand in hand with Cormoran as they ran, ran, ran, ran, ran.

 

* * *

 

“We’ve got breakfast!” Cormoran heard Ilsa in the outer room. She banged on the bedroom door. “Are you two decent?”

They were not. They weren’t quite finished, still enveloped in their duvet cocoon where nothing was supposed to penetrate.

But the smell of toast was penetrating their little cocoon, and Robin giggled as Cormoran’s stomach rumbled. She looked so much like before all this that he laughed too, kissing her by the ear as she nuzzled her face against his neck.

“What are they doing here?” she whispered, still not moving from their position where they were really quite in the middle of it.

“Fucking hell.” he grumbled, a little— _a lot_ annoyed that they’d been interrupted. If they’d just waited a minute or so, he would feel a lot less frustrated and uncomfortable.

“Everything alright?” Ilsa yelled through the door again, and Cormoran heard the faint click of his doorknob about to be turned.

“Don’t come in here!” he yelled, a little panicked, and was amused and annoyed at Robin’s silent guffaw at his face. He was glad that she was enjoying herself, who he _knew_ had already gotten what she needed while he valiantly held out because he loved her, and was a gentleman, and thought he had longer.

“D’you think they’re doing it in there?” he heard Nick whisper loudly, sounding a little worried. Quite apart from his attic flat being small and drafty, it also had thin walls. “They really shouldn’t be, Oggy _just_ had surgery! Twice!”

Robin made to pull herself off, but he squeezed her hips and held her in place. He practically devoured her mouth and resumed how he was rocking her before they’d been rudely interrupted. Robin yanked her face away from his. “Cormoran!” she squealed quietly, laughing. “Your friends are outside!”

“Gh!” he grunted, stopping immediately, head on her shoulder.

“C’mon. I’ll make it up to you.” Robin promised, lifting his face up, giving him a quick kiss. He smiled at that, and she finally pulled off his lap and put some clothes on.

“Go on ahead,” he told her, still not moving from his position. “I’m gonna need a minute.”

Sniggering, Robin exited the bedroom and Cormoran thought of things that are the very opposite of her exquisite, glorious, naked body.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning!” Robin greeted her friends, voice still hoarse as though she has the world’s longest cold. She draped her arms around Nick, who leaned into her hug, and kissed Ilsa before grabbing for a piece of toast.

“You’re in a good mood.” Ilsa noted.

She was in a good mood. A _great_ mood. Cormoran was fine, she was fine, they’re going to get married (at some point in the future, a long long time from now), she just had a pretty good orgasm, and now she’s got friends bringing her breakfast.

Nick lifted her head and checked her bruised neck. “Is it sore?” he asked.

“A little when I swallow, and my voice is still bad.”

“Yeah. I saw your scans and your vocal folds are healing nicely. This should clear up soon, too. Maybe within a week or two, tops.”

“Yay!” she exclaimed, cheerful for the first time in what felt like forever.

“What’s become of Corm?” Ilsa asked.

Robin choked as she laughed mid-bite into her toast. “Needed a minute.”

Ilsa gave her a look. “You two are incorrigible.”

“Knew it. He just had surgery, Rob!”

“He’s fine!” Robin waved them off. “What are you two doing here?”

“ _I’m_ not letting you two go to New Scotland Yard without a lawyer, possibly ever again. Those arseholes—” Robin saw Ilsa’s hands shake a little. Ilsa cleared her throat, put down the butter knife, and looked at Robin. “I’m building a case.”

“A case?”

“Against the Met. The way they handled this case, how that fucker Roy Carver interrogated Tom Turvey, and Sarah Shadlock, how Rachel Grainger interrogated you, and Martin—”

“How did she interrogate Martin?” Robin asked, suddenly concerned. She’s seen much of Martin in the last week, flitting in and out of the hospital with her family. They didn’t talk about any of it at all. She didn’t want to hear it, worried sick over Cormoran.

“She’s very aggressive, that little Rottweiler. I was there, so I got him out of that pretty quickly, but the things she was implying!”

“I’d rather _you_ didn’t, Ils.” Cormoran said, joining them.

“No?”

Cormoran grabbed for a piece of toast. Nick hovered over him, peeking under his shirt from his collar, checking his bandage.

“We work a lot with those guys. Would rather have them bending over backwards to accommodate us next time we need them. They’d shut us out if we tried to sue.”

Ilsa’s lip was quivering, looking thoroughly concerned. “But look at the state of you two!” she exclaimed, suddenly sobbing. Nick and Cormoran were on her in an instant, in a three-way group hug that Robin wished she could photograph.

“We’re fine, aren’t we doc?”

Nick pulled away from Ilsa to nod, before hugging her again.

“It isn’t right, what they did.” Ilsa insisted.

“I agree.” said Cormoran. “If you want them sued, you can ask one of your pals to do it. I’m sure Shadlock and Turvey’s family are already looking into it for Carver. Just can’t have _you_ doing it, they will know it’s in behalf of us.”

Ilsa considered this, and finally nodded.

“I’m still coming with you two. I’m not leaving your sides.”

“Fair enough.” said Cormoran, kissing his friend’s cheek. “But we haven’t been called, though.”

“No?” Ilsa asked, surprised. Cormoran shook his head. “We were going to open up the office today, try and do some work.”

“Oh. I thought they would’ve—” Ilsa wondered out loud. Robin wondered that, too. She was sure they would’ve been called to New Scotland Yard yesterday. She expected nothing less than being fetched from the hospital by panda cars.

“I’m not in a fucking hurry to tell them where they went wrong.” Cormoran shrugged. He took Robin’s hand and pulled her to the bathroom. “You two can stay, but I warn you his place has thin walls and we’re not very quiet.”

“Cormoran!” Robin said, surprised, whacking him lightly on his wrong shoulder. He hissed. “Oops. Sorry!”

“Oh, Oggy, I don’t think—” Nick protested.

Ilsa shook her head. “Seriously, you two.” she said as she made for the door. “C’mon, Nicky. Let’s leave these two before they start humping in front of us.”

Robin was very embarrassed by this, ducking her warm face on Cormoran’s chest, careful to avoid his injury. He, on the other hand, was chuckling. She liked hearing him laugh so heartily.

“Just--just _go easy_ , okay? That was a major surgery Oggy.”

“See you later.” said Cormoran, closing the bathroom door with her and himself inside. “What was that you were saying about making it up to me?” he grinned.

 

* * *

 

When Cormoran dragged Robin in the shower, this wasn’t what he pictured.

She was currently using the shower head to wash his body, keeping his dressing from getting wet. He was imagining things more along the lines of… bodies a lot more _bent_.

But she was naked, and he was permitted to look, even touch, but there wasn’t much touching going on. He had one good hand and one good leg and they were the bare minimum requirement for keeping himself upright.

He liked watching Robin wash herself, how she would let the water trickle down her body. She didn’t look like she was trying to arouse him, but that’s what’s happening anyway.

“Come over here.” he said, wanting some part of them touching. The side of her mouth curled to a smile and she stepped to him, pressing her very wet and very glistening and very naked body against his.

They kissed, and he felt her hands around him, moving up, moving down, and he was groaning low against her mouth.

He wished he could be _inside_ , but neither of them were at their physical best for anything horizontal, much less _vertical_. (They shouldn’t be doing anything at all, doctor’s orders!) But he would take anything Robin would give him. Literally anything.

“Don’t slip.” she breathed against his ear, as her hands moved and twisted in a way that was making his knees buckle. “ _Don’t slip.”_ she warned.

“Not gonna slip.” he assured her, though really it could go either way. She was very, _very_ good at what she was doing.

“Don’t slip!” she warned again, because he had made a little hop when her thumb did a circle-y thing that made him bleat out an involuntary yell.

“ _Fuck_!” he whined, partly annoyed at her repeated warnings, partly a little crazed because she had started rubbing someplace he didn’t even know he wanted rubbed. “Don’t stop!” he quite frankly begged, desperate. He wouldn’t know what to do if she stopped.

He considered it a mark of her love for him that she had started speeding up.

“Don’t slip!” she repeated, and he met her hand movements with erratic hip thrusts and he felt his one leg wobble and it was all he could do to keep from _completely_ collapsing over Robin who was bracing his good shoulder with one slippery hand while her other was doing some sort of massage that’s squeezing and rubbing and twisting and thumbing that was making him delirious with pleasure.

“Corm, we’re going to—”

It was fortunate that there wasn’t room for two in his tiny bathroom, because otherwise, he would’ve pulled her completely down. Instead, she had leaned against the wall and he held on to her, mouth on her collarbone, hand digging at her hip, blubbering groans of ecstacy as he came.

Didn’t matter if Nick and Ilsa were right outside, down the office, or across the street. He was quite certain the whole of Denmark Street heard him.

“Ah shit!” she exclaimed. “You’re bleeding now.”

His chest hurt like hell, but he laughed and kissed her on the mouth. “Worth it.”

 

* * *

 

Ilsa drove them to the hospital Nick works at after their little stunt, and no one in the A&E believed Cormoran when he said he slipped in the bathroom when the doctor redressed his bandages.

Probably because he had a self-satisfied smirk on his face, and was giving her covert looks as he said it.

At least he didn’t need to get them re-stitched.

At least he was alive.

“If you _really_ insist, there are positions—”

“Nope.” said Cormoran, hopping off the gurney and patting the doctor on the back. “I’m good, thanks.” and he held out a hand to her and they went back in Ilsa’s car.


	45. "Should I drive to New Scotland Yard?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanations, explanations.

 

 

 

Cormoran got a text from Richard Anstis: ‘At Tottenham with Eric and V. Reporters all over your bldg.’

“Looks like we’re being summoned after all,” said Cormoran who showed the text message to Robin.

“Should I drive to New Scotland Yard?” Ilsa asked, shifting the gear to reverse. “Nope. Tottenham. Anstis is there with the others.”

They went to the Tottenham and Robin practically threw the car door open to get to Vanessa. He knew she didn’t see her—even though they were all at the same hospital—spending the entire time watching over him. She was already hugging Vanessa when he laboriously pulled himself off of Ilsa’s car, ignoring his friend’s generous offer to help.

“Got to dash,” said Ilsa. “Call me if you’re going to New Scotland Yard.”

“Will do.” he replied, accepting her one-armed hug. He pulled away but she held tighter.

“That was a close one, Corm.” she said in his ear, and he heard the shakiness in her voice again.

“Yeah.” he agreed, hugging his friend tighter. “I’m gonna be alright Ils. You know me, built for stamina.”

“Ha ha.” Ilsa retorted, staring at him as she finally pulled away. “Call me!”

Anstis and Wardle stood up when they saw him, extending their hands for a shake. Seeing as he didn’t have a problem with either of them, and that they had been helpful and tried hard to be on his and Robin’s side, he shook their hands.

“Glad you didn’t die, mate.” said Anstis, letting Cormoran sit in the booth next to Robin. “I swung by a few times, never caught you awake.”

“I know. I just didn’t fancy talking to you.” he joked. They all laughed. “How are you, Van?”

“Good! I’m on desk duty for the foreseeable future, but I can’t complain. Never been shot before, not fun.”

“No, not fun.” Cormoran agreed.

“How about you, Corm? Yours look nasty.”

He only shrugged. “Been through worse.” he said, which was a stock response and something he said also for Robin’s benefit. In truth, not even when his leg had been blown off did he came that close to dying.

“Anyone want a pint?” Eric Wardle offered, getting up from his chair. It wasn’t even noon, but he took the detective inspector up on his offer, as did Anstis.

“What brings you three to our neck of the woods, Rich?”

“Just wanted to see you, pal. Truly.”

Cormoran nodded, accepting this to be true.

“We’ve been waiting for our summons, thought this might be it.”

The three Met officers exchanged looks.

“What?” Cormoran asked.

“It’s coming, Bob. Rachel Grainger’s just neck deep in shit with this case. The press have been merciless, have you seen?”

Cormoran shook his head.

“A Guardian piece deep-diving into interrogation techniques. Written by a Harriet Ellacott, actually. Any relation, Robin?”

“Yeah,” she said, still with her raspy voice. “Cousin.”

“It wouldn’t be Rob she’s talking to.” said Cormoran, protectively. Annoyed at the insinuation. “We haven’t been talking about—”

“I know mate, I know!” said Richard placatingly. “I’m not saying anything. They’re not looking at us so what the fuck do I care? It’s mostly about Carver. Grainger, too. He was her professor at uni a few years back. Might be the only person in the force that actually likes him.”

Cormoran grunted.

“She’ll pop by soon enough. Giving you two some space just now.”

 _Good_ , Cormoran thought.

“What happened to Jemima?” Robin asked. There was a beat of silence.

“In custody, suicide watch.” said Wardle. “Confessed to everything pretty swiftly.”

“Why?” Robin asked, surprise on her face.

The cops looked at each other again.

“Grainger asked Matthew to help convince her, Robin.” said Vanessa. “He was very cooperative after he heard what she’d done to both of you.”

“Was he now?” said Cormoran, skeptical. He didn’t know if Matthew had been by the hospital in the last week. Robin hadn’t said, and he didn’t really care.

“She’s angling for an insanity defence, we think.” said Wardle. “You’ll be shown the interrogation tape, I’m sure. She’s a psycho, that one. Properly a psycho. Gives me the creeps.”

“She’s been stalking Matthew for awhile, it turns out. Fell for him as she said.” said Vanessa. “According to her confession, she met a lounge singer at a Pilates class and paid her a hundred quid to ask Matthew’s number.”

“Why would she do that?” Robin asked.

Vanessa seemed hesitant, but continued. “Said something about testing if Matthew was being honest when he said he was done hooking up with random women. According to her, Matthew said that he was looking for something real, whatever that means. She’s obsessed with him. Followed him to Mango Tree when he met you, Rob.”

Cormoran felt Robin’s hand slip in his under the table.

“And followed you two back to Knightsbridge.”

“Oh my god!” said Robin in a silent gasp.

“We think she was the one calling you that night at 2AM, Robin.” Anstis added. “Those phone calls you weren’t answering. We think she wanted to find out where you were.”

Cormoran squeezed her hand.

“Yeah. Matthew did say he couldn’t remember ringing you that night after he’d gone home, but he accepted that he might’ve been too drunk. He did surrender his phone records, and we saw that Sarah had texted him around that time, too. Said that she was at the Malmaison with Tom Turvey, and that she’s going to tell him about the affair and the baby.” said Vanessa. “That’s when we think she decided to take out Sarah instead.”

“I saw Tom at the Viaduct Sunday.” said Robin with her broken voice and Cormoran wondered if it hurt when she spoke for too much or too long. “If he was told he’d been cheated on, and that his fiance was carrying someone else’s baby, he wouldn’t be so smug. He genuinely thought things were okay between him and Sarah.”

Cormoran, unable to help himself, kissed the back of Robin’s head.

The cops looked at each other again.

“Grainger took another shot at Shadlock,” said Wardle. “Brought Layborn along. According to him, Shadlock said she chickened out. Just got him to book a room because she’ll be leaving for the States in the morning. He never knew about her being pregnant until Carver told him. We reviewed the guest log for that night, Tom Turvey did book a room using his own credit card and then another one using his business expense card. We’d have figured out Jemima was using Tom’s business expense card eventually, but she was upfront about it in her confession.”

“Did she talk about her account of the night?” Cormoran asked.

“Yeah.” said Wardle gravely. “Knew it was Jemima that did it to her.”

“Boss.” said Robin suddenly.

“Yeah.” Anstis agreed.

“What?” Cormoran asked.

“Sarah wasn’t writing my name for Carver,” said Robin looking up at him. “She was writing ‘Boss’.”

“How would anyone twig ‘boss’ from that? And even then, Jemima Potter doesn’t look like someone who had the strength to overpower Sarah Shadlock, or even Monica Andrada.” said Wardle.

Cormoran saw Vanessa glare at him. He was surrounded by people of different sizes and physical strength who were overpowered by thin, bony, injured Jemima Potter. Some people’s desperation and insanity can translate to physical strength.

“It would’ve fuckin helped widen the search!” Anstis piped up. “But Carver was fucking insisting it was ‘Robin’ even if the handwriting experts were saying it was a stretch. And it would’ve been easier than writing fucking ‘Jemima’! She wanted Carver off her hair.”

“This was all after Jemima’s confession, though.” said Vanessa. “Sarah’s not doing well. She had to be trach-ed at some point instead of intubated. Couldn’t speak much or for very long, but she did say it was Jemima.”

“Yeah.” Wardle added. “Potter herself said she caught Sarah and Tom at the hotel bar and followed them to their room before booking the one next door.”

“The CCTV didn’t catch her?” Cormoran asked.

“Of course it did, but Carver wasn’t looking for her, was he? She was wearing a thick coat and sunglasses even at that hour. The idiot concierge thought he’d been checking in Anna Wintour under a pseudonym.” said Wardle, shaking his head. “Carver was only interested if he could place you or Matthew Cunliffe in the area.”

“What did she do to Sarah?” Robin asked.

Wardle sighed. “Said it wasn’t hard. Said she pretended they ran into each other as a coincidence, you know. Said something about needing help with a passed out one night stand or something. She’s quick on her feet, Jemima. Anyway, when Sarah was in her room, blow to the head, doused her in acid, switched their clothes—”

“Why would she switch their clothes?” Cormoran asked.

“According to her, she just wanted Shadlock to disappear. Make it seem like she went away and just never returned. She made her as unrecognisable as possible—or that was the plan anyway—switching their clothes so she wouldn’t be identifiable that way. It wasn’t fool-proof.” sighed Wardle. “That was a good catch, Robin. If it wasn’t Carver who was lead in the case, it would’ve been investigated.”

God Cormoran fucking hoped that arsehole gets his badge revoked. He had half a mind to let Ilsa pursue the case against the Met.

“Potter thought she left Shadlock for dead. Completely forgot about Matthew’s number on the dress she put on the poor woman.” Wardle continued. “Implied that us questioning Matthew about the found woman _drove_ her to abduct Monica Andrada—and I quote—sooner than planned. She’s a psycho, I’m telling you.”

“Lured Mo to her flat Monday during office hours to make sure Matthew had an iron-clad alibi for it. He was at work Monday.” said Vanessa.

“What was done to Andrada?” Cormoran asked, remembering how the poor woman looked the first time he saw her on a bed in Jemima’s flat.

Vanessa sighed. “According to her, the original plan was more or less do what she did with Sarah, but she ran out of hydrochloric acid.”

“She bought another one Tuesday, we saw the credit statement on Tom’s business expense account.” said Robin.

“Yeah. But it never arrived. Which may be lucky because otherwise, Jemima would’ve definitely killed her.” said Vanessa.

Cormoran thought what had been done to Mo Andrada, what she had been through, might have been a fate worse than death. “So she just kept her to rot?”

“Is she okay?” Robin asked.

“As okay as someone in that state would be.” said Vanessa. “I’d been to look in on her. Said pretty much what Jemima also said. That Jemima kept her in one of the bedrooms. She was gagged for a few days, wasn’t given food or water at all.”

There was silence for awhile, with the three men drinking their pints.

“Mo was calling Mart,” Robin finally said. “How did she do that?”

“That’s what got her cuffed,” Vanessa sighed. “She was able to break away one night and knew where her phone was kept. Jemima didn’t hide it very well, probably thought Monica was too weak and scared to get a hold of it. Jemima caught her and cuffed her to the bed instead. She didn’t know she left a voice mail.”

“That was the night that bitch threw what little hydrochloric acid she had on Andrada’s face.” added Wardle.

Robin looked upset knowing this, and Cormoran pulled her closer against him.

“It isn’t your fault, Rob.” Vanessa insisted. “How could you or Martin have known she was calling for help?”

Robin shook her head, and with her voice already soft and croaky, it was now also quivering. “I can’t believe she was hurt like that.”

She leaned back into him and Cormoran rested his chin on her head awhile, and then kissed the top of it. The officers were staring at them, but he couldn’t care less. He remembered how Mo Andrada looked, how her skin blistered with scars she will carry for life.

“Did she also confess to breaking into the apartment?” he finally asked.

“Yep.” said Wardle. “Thought Robin would be home, according to her. Didn’t know your patterns have changed in the last week. Lucky really!” he grinned at Cormoran but he only stared at the detective inspector.

“How’d you figure it out, Robin?” Anstis asked. “That it was Jemima?”

It was Vanessa who answered, smiling. “She fit the profile of the intruder, and Rob saw she’d been limping.”

Robin shook her head. “I thought I’d done it," she said, voice raspy. This was the most she’s talked since that night at the apartment. “Ran into her when I was leaving Matt’s hospital and she was fiddling with her feet. I thought I caused it. Should’ve realised it earlier.”

“I thought she’d been acting,” Cormoran realised. “Ran into her the first time I went to Matthew. She was there too. She pretended to slip on her long trousers and made me catch her. I thought she was putting it on.”

She really was a quick thinker, that Jemima. But Cormoran hated himself for allowing ego to make him believe that the woman was merely acting, flirting with him.

“Matt was recently promoted, not four months ago.” Robin continued. “And one of his girlfriends told me he recently came into even more money. More than the raise he got previously. I thought it was weird. Not even Matthew would climb up that fast and that much.”

“Was it Monica Bouchard?” Wardle asked with a smirk.

“She was limping when I saw your guys pick her up at University College Hospital,” said Cormoran. “Did she say how that happened?”

“I asked about that and she said that Jemima Potter kicked her in the shin when she was yelling at Matthew.” said Wardle. “Bouchard was screaming that Potter had something to do with all this, actually. We didn’t really pay much attention.” Wardle sighed regretfully at that. “Thought she was just raving, wasn’t she? But it’s not like she had any evidence.”

“I just acted on a hunch because there was no one left.” said Robin.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Robin!” said Anstis. “You showed good instincts. You’ve been on this case from the first. You thought creatively, analytically. Top notch work.”

Cormoran knew Anstis would love her. He rubbed Robin’s arm, but she didn’t seem any cheered.

“How did she manage to take Cormoran?” she asked.

Vanessa sighed. “Saw CCTV from Oriole Bar. She slipped Corm something. You were acting erratically, Corm, but you were also drinking. It wouldn’t be hard to say you were just drunk. The bouncer who helped put you in the BMW said the woman claimed you two were together.”

He figured as much, remembering the bit about being walked to the car. Him and Robin knew about the drug. They got that from the hospital. It hadn’t completely passed his system when he was brought in.

“D’you remember anything from it?” Wardle asked.

Cormoran shook his head. “Just remembered waking up all limbs cuffed to a bed.”

He felt Robin squeeze his thigh.

“That how you broke your thumb?” Wardle asked. He nodded. The cop winced. “Christ!”

“We really just wanted to see how you two are,” Anstis repeated. “Good to see you’re both out and about.”

Their friends from the Met gave their goodbyes, leaving Cormoran and Robin at their booth in the Tottenham.

She looked at him with teary eyes, and he cupped her cheek.

“We almost died.” she said.

“We almost died.” he agreed.

“But we didn’t.” she said.

“But we didn’t.” he repeated.

“I love you.” she said.

“I love you.” said Cormoran and he bent his face to plant a soft kiss on her lips.


	46. "Do you love him?"

 

 

 

FIVE WEEKS LATER

 

 

 

The thing about Matthew Cunliffe is that he doesn’t even like Thai food. And yet here she was again, at Mango Tree, the site where he _didn’t_ propose to her. Has he forgotten exactly where he did it? It would be like Matthew to change the story to make himself look better. It sounds more proper for someone of his stature to propose at a nice restaurant than to fumble in front of the statue of Eros with a bunch of tramps cheering him on.

Robin realised, as though coming to an epiphany, that it was her very favorite memory of Matthew—and that it was also when he was least acting like himself.

This is who he truly was, choosing an upscale restaurant just to show that he can afford it, that he belonged.

At least it isn’t her problem anymore. _He_ isn’t her problem anymore.

The thought cheered her immensely that she was quite looking forward to him arriving so they can get this bit over with and she could leave.

She was excited to leave. She was going on holiday.

“Thanks for meeting me.” said Matthew as he sat opposite her. He looked as handsome as she’s ever known him. Sharply dressed, trim, clean-cut and well-groomed. But she regarded his handsomeness as she would say a bouquet of tulips were beautiful: nice to look at, but ultimately carries little meaning for her.

She opened the folder already on the table and clicked open Cormoran’s ball-point pen that she borrowed.

Matthew took it and signed. No fuss, no hesitation. Robin thought this was the most she’s ever liked him since they got married.

“Thanks.” she said, trying to fight the smile creeping on her face as she tucked the papers away into her bag. She knew she ought to be sad, and perhaps at some point she would mourn the demise of this chapter of her life. But for right now, she felt like dancing.

“Cormoran with you?” he asked.

“Waiting for me in the parking lot.” she enjoyed saying it.

“You could’ve asked him in, I wouldn’t make a fuss.” said Matthew. She looked at him. “I _swear_ I wouldn’t.”

“Did you need him for something?” asked Robin.

He shook his head. Awkward silence. Suddenly, Matthew reached for Robin’s hand. She didn’t move either to accept the gesture or rebuff it. “God, Robin, what can I say?”

He looked anguished suddenly, tragic and regretful for all the mess he’s caused. She felt for him, truly she did. He did a lot of things wrong, Matthew. Caused her a lot of pain, but the business with Jemima Potter was none of his fault. She had been there when he testified that he never led Jemima on, never once made it seem as though he returned her interest in him.

She let him work out whatever emotions he wanted to work out. Patient, because this would be the very last time Matthew Cunliffe would ever be permitted her time or even company. She didn’t placate him, though. She had already said neither her nor Cormoran blamed him for the events that happened over a month ago. She wasn’t going to give him an additional ego boost.

He cried a little and then composed himself, letting go of Robin’s hand to wipe the tears from his eyes.

“How’s Mo?” she asked. She knew that they were still together, that he had so nobly stuck by her as she recuperated from what Jemima Potter had done to her. “Better.” he said. “Back home with her mum for a bit.”

She hoped Matthew wasn’t screwing anyone now in the city as his girlfriend recovered in Masham.

“And Sarah?”

He sighed. “Better, too, I think. Been to see her a week ago.”

Sarah, as Robin also knew, was staying in a rehabilitation facility. She carried no more bad blood for the woman. She couldn’t, not after everything that had happened.

Awkward silence.

“It’s a boy.” said Matthew cheering up a little. “We did the anatomy scan thing.”

“I’m happy for you, Matt.” said Robin, meaning it.

“Did you ever think we’d end up like this?” he asked.

“Twenty-eight and divorced, you mean?” Robin retorted, unable to help it.

He bowed his head and smiled sadly, and she appreciated that he took the hit without slinging back. Robin felt as though she grew up immensely in the last two months, and figured Matthew felt the same. It registered to her that everything that’s happened to her, happened to him, too.

“Do you love him?” he asked her.

“Yes.” she said immediately.

“More than you ever loved me, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

He looked at her at that. She didn’t say it to be mean or hurtful, but she wanted him to know. Matthew Cunliffe would always be the first, there was nothing she could do about that, but she wanted him to know that she didn’t spend the best of her love on him.

The expression on his face was something she’s never seen on Matthew before. It was an odd sort of smile that she only understood when he spoke. “Sorry I married you.”

He was being self-deprecating and sincere.

She smiled. “Sorry I married you, too.”

She moved to stand up, and so did he. She was at a loss for an appropriate gesture to end a marriage, but she knew what to do after a favorable transaction has commenced. She extended her hand.

Matthew, close to chuckling, shook it.

They would never be the kind of exes who’d be good friends. She didn’t want that at all, but Robin was still glad that they parted if not as friends, then as adults.

Cormoran was leaning against the Land Rover, lighting a cigarette. She half wanted to run to him, jump into his arms, she was so cheerful. She resisted, of course, because it wasn’t very proper and he was still healing from taking a bullet to the chest.

She was skipping though, actually skipping.

He smiled as he saw her approach.

“He signed it?” he asked.

“Yep!” she repeated and Cormoran, in a very un-Cormoran-like way, held up his large palm for a high-five.

She gave him one and they both laughed before their arms were around each other and he leaned to kiss her and she sighed in his embrace.

“Let’s go to Cornwall.” he said, his face close to hers.

She smiled. “Let’s go to Cornwall.”

He kissed her once, twice, and one more time before letting her go.

And so she drove easily into the street, Cormoran’s hand on her thigh, an unfamiliar song playing on the radio.

_You and me, me and you  
_ _Somehow we made it through_

 

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap on this story! For real, this time! <3
> 
> I could write it forever, pack on more smut masquerading as fluff but I figured I should quit while I'm ahead. :P
> 
> I'm really proud of this, you guise! I've never written fiction before I started writing fic, and I'm thrilled with how this turned out! I wanted to explore Cormoran and Robin's romantic dynamic, and how that would go with the rest of the people around them and of course their business. And I wanted to see if I could plausibly write a mystery people would actually be interested in.
> 
> I'm even more thrilled that I get to experience your enriching comments as I went along. It's a huge part of why I worked so hard on this and how I've been able to update practically daily (or even multiple times a day lol). It's amazing to have people cheering me on and swooning with me and getting legit worried when things got a little hairy for awhile there (#sorrynotsorry)! I hope I entertained and enthralled you. <3
> 
> I’d love to hear your comments about everything! What did you think about the story? Share your favorite bits? Chapters? Moments?
> 
> That's it from me! If you enjoyed this, leave a kudos (if you haven't already hehe) and tell your friends!


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